Safe as Houses
by Evelyn Benton
Summary: After Jackson learns that the Red Eye assignment six years prior was only a small part of a much larger conspiracy that Lisa is the key to understanding, the two must work together from the sanctuary of their safe house to bring down his Company and survive.
1. Prologue: A Long Thirty Years

**Title:** Safe as Houses

**Author:** Evelyn Benton

**Rating:** Mature

**Date:** 01/06/2012 – 05/27/2013

**Genre:** Drama, Action, Romance

**Fandom:**_ Red Eye _(Lisa/Jackson)

**Archive:** Stellar Phenomena and fanfictiondotnet; all others, please ask.

**Disclaimer:** Dreamworks & co. own _Red Eye_; I own this not-for-profit fan fiction; no copyright infringement intended.

**Acknowledgement: **Endless gratitude goes out to son-of-puji for beta reading this story. Her patience, honesty, and attention to detail made this final product far better than it would have been without her support. Her words of encouragement brought me out of my self-designed protective shell that I've been hiding in online for quite some time. This is the first story I've had the nerve to post in years and I owe it to her. Thank you for everything!

* * *

**Prologue: A Long Thirty Years**

* * *

**October, 2005**

Lisa Reisert could hear the rude commentary all the way back at the main desk. One of the large flat-screen televisions in the lobby had almost magnetically attracted a small but very vocal group of observers. Some viewers knew Lisa personally, some didn't, but none cared about her feelings at the moment. They were too distracted by their own personal desire to see the conviction of Jackson Rippner, and with any luck, his sentencing to death.

It was a twisted impulse, and a disturbingly human one at that, Lisa thought of their attitude as she grimly glared at the practically salivating group in front of the television. Her assessment of the human race had grown more negative as of late, but somehow she had to maintain her dignity in a cruel, cold world, or at least the appearance of dignity. She hated Rippner as much as the next person, perhaps more so, but she was not going to lower herself to the role of spectator in this disgusting sport that celebrated death and misery. Her hands were occupied with straightening a bouquet of peach-colored roses and carnations on a lamp table, but her eyes stayed on the group. She refused to look at the screen, but when a man in prison orange was escorted into the room in wrist and ankle cuffs, her eyes involuntarily traveled to him. She quickly averted them after spotting him on camera but not actually seeing him. She didn't want to update her image of him, to refresh his presence in her mind. She turned sharply and walked toward the main desk of Miami's extravagant Lux Atlantic Hotel.

Lisa flinched slightly when she noticed her cell phone was ringing. It was an ordinary ring tone. In Lisa's world, particularly the newest version of her world, there were no cute ring tones or fun popular songs to alert her to a call. It was a plain ring that was standard on millions of cell phones, yet she was in the less than one percent of the population who actually used it. Normally Lisa's cell would be off when she was at work, but today was different.

"Hi, Mom," she said without hesitation. Before she could say anything else, her mother commenced a nervous ramble.

"Are you watching it? Of course not. Why would you watch it? You shouldn't watch it. I'm watching it. I can't believe he got off on terrorism charges—"

She knew the phrase "calm down" would only anger her mother, so she opted for a similar substitute. "Mom, it's okay," Lisa patiently insisted, her customer service skills instinctively taking over without any conscious effort on her part. "Whatever happens, he will do time or maybe even get the death sen—"

"That doesn't matter!" her mother interrupted, her voice high pitched and anxious. "Lisa, he's a terrorist. And you aided a terrorist!"

"Under duress and protest," Lisa automatically corrected as she scanned the computer screen to see the work schedule for the week. "I assisted a terrorist and undermined his efforts. Aiding a terrorist is illegal regardless of circumstances, but I undid the mess. Keefe knows this, Mom. He's now the new Secretary of Homeland Security," she reminded her mother of Keefe's recent promotion after the previous Secretary's sudden resignation three weeks prior. "I think if I get an excuse from him, I won't be required to go on the class field trip to Guantanamo Bay."

Lisa made a face as she held the phone away from her ear for a moment. She had become more open with her thoughts and tended to sharpen her words like weapons lately. It was a bad habit, but it had felt so good the first few times she had done it. Verbally assaulting—mocking—Jackson Rippner as she beat him with her hands and whatever else she could find was sickly invigorating, and it made her feel alive for the first time in years. Putting the world's most obnoxious hotel guests in their place made her feel like she had a voice again. Words had power and it took psychopathic Jackson Rippner to teach her that. Now, like a drug junkie, she was addicted to saying what she wanted to say and how she wanted to say it. It was a bad addiction that she attempted to keep under control and only use in non-work circumstances, but like all addictions, she knew it was only a matter of time before it completely overtook her personality.

"Don't take that tone with me," her mother warned in a low, measured voice that was nothing like the jittery panic of a few moments prior. "I'm looking out for you, Lisa." Lisa remained speechless a few awkward moments, so her mother took the quiet space as her own to fill. "I still think you should talk to a lawyer—"

"I don't need one. Dad said I don't need one." Lisa had also learned the importance of playing the "Dad Said" card with her mother. It was pathetic for an adult to do it, but she knew it irritated her mother when Lisa ignored her comments and suggestions in exclusive favor of her father's.

This time, though, her mother's reaction wasn't quite the one she was hoping to earn. "Joe said it's alright?" her mother asked softly. Lisa stopped looking at the computer and squinted her eyes as she contemplated this for a moment.

"Yeah," she answered in an uncertain voice. "Yeah, he said he thinks I'll be fine. He trusts Keefe." Both women were wordless on the line. "Mom, I'm fine. I don't need a lawyer. I don't need to see his sentencing. I just need to be left alone for a while. Get back to the real world, you know?"

"I know." Her mother's response was brief, but her clipped words told Lisa how truly helpless her mother felt yet again. It seemed Lisa was always giving her parents a reason to worry and that made Lisa feel guilty for not only her own actions, but her inactions as well. Lisa, the victim of two horrific crimes, felt like she was to blame for her parents' distress. It was another unhealthy habit of hers on a long list of other unhealthy habits.

"Mom, I have to go. I love you." Lisa spoke quickly and ended the call. Based on the tone she used, her mother would think she had to get back to work, that a customer was approaching and Lisa had to flip on her best Manager's persona, but that was just another lie in the life of Lisa Reisert. Lisa had never realized what a liar she was until Jackson Rippner, of all people, had pointed it out to her. He had stalked her and caught her in several lies, but the worst part about it was that some of the lies were the ones she told to herself in the privacy of her own home. Now, Lisa welcomed the freedom of telling a lie when she wanted to do so. She wanted to own the lie, not hide behind it in fear. She was in control, just as Rippner had inadvertently taught her to be.

Lisa slid her cell into the pocket of her black blazer and stood vacantly for a moment in an attempt to compose herself. She felt something, but she could no longer identify her emotions. Since her encounter with Jackson Rippner, nothing had made sense. He was a man who practically boasted about his obsession with facts and logic, yet he was weakened by a storm of his own emotions, a tempest that had helped her defeat him. It seemed now that her mind had become as confused as his. She couldn't handle information and feelings the same way she had before, and more often than not, she merely felt—

"Lisa!"

—dead.

Lisa looked up to find her co-worker Cynthia running toward her in wobbly high heels. Cynthia came to an abrupt halt in front of the check-in desk, her hands clutching the counter as she attempted to catch her breath. "Thirty years!" Lisa's response was blank. "He got thirty years in prison!" the redhead announced again.

Lisa's gaze shifted to the left of Cynthia. The flower arrangement caught her attention once more. Lisa couldn't determine what to think of this new information. Was it a victory? Was it a shock? Was it a dream? Was it a nightmare?

"Lisa? Did you hear me? He got thirty years!" Cynthia repeated, a dry laugh of unintentionally sadistic enthusiasm sneaking into her words. Cynthia didn't wait for a reply. She spun swiftly and scurried back to the lobby to watch the coverage of the trial.

With Jackson Rippner out of her life for the next thirty years, without having to see his face, hear his voice, or think about his ways, her life was empty. There was no one to fear. No one to hate. No one to be her enemy. No one to be her target. No one to help her world, a world violated by rape and assault, make sense, even if it was a vile type of sense. Rippner was a horrible person, a despicable excuse for a man, but he gave her a way to vent her anger and frustration. He made her feel, even if those feelings were rage and hatred. For the next thirty years, she would be alone with only the cold hollow spot in her heart to keep her company.

Lisa retrieved the phone book from under the counter. She flipped through the yellow pages for a moment before stopping on a page and letting her eyes roam it. She took out her cell and started to dial.

"Let's hope it's a long thirty years," she muttered to herself as she waited for someone to pick up her call.

* * *

After the sentencing, Jackson was transported in a police van from the courthouse to the prison. He was cuffed at the wrist and ankles, and he couldn't help feeling a sense of satisfaction of how dangerous the authorities apparently had deemed him. Although he wasn't back to 100% yet, he was more or less healed from holes caused by bullets, pens, high heels, and other debris that Lisa Reisert and her father had shared with him as a parting gift. Still, he wasn't planning to fight anyone today or for a long time to come. He wasn't a fighter by nature, but Lisa had somehow managed to bring out the less advanced, more primitive side of his character.

Jackson sat apathetically in the cold steel chair of the interrogation room. He wasn't told why he had to wait there, but he assumed it was merely a placeholder for him while the prison pencil-pushers arranged his paperwork. The cold and sterile gray room was made of silver metal, from the wall trimming to the chairs. There was a camera in the top corner above the door that was aimed directly for Jackson's chair and the seat opposite it. Suspiciously, there was a bottle of water on the table. The lid seal had been broken open, but it was arranged to look unopened. His eyes took in every detail of the room and mentally catalogued them. It was a routine based on survival instinct.

After sitting there for over twenty-five minutes, the door finally opened and Jackson's two court-appointed lawyers entered the room. Jackson was no amateur and his Company wasn't born yesterday. They remained silent on everything. No one could get anything out of Jackson aside from his name being Jackson Rippner. Although a record was in the system for that name, it was clearly an alias. When it came time for legal action to be taken against him, his Company made no effort to break him out of custody or make any contact with him at all. It was standard procedure. If an agent was idiotic enough to get caught, he deserved to lose his job (and possibly his life).

The female lawyer was a blonde in her late forties. She was still a very attractive woman, not in a made-up "cougar" way like the woman on the plane, but she was good looking and powerful. Her strength was visible in every movement she made, every blink of her eyes, and every slight tilt of her head. She gracefully slid into the seat opposite Jackson. She opened her briefcase and dug around in it for a moment. Her pupils were concealed by long bangs that hung over her eyes just enough to be trendy. The young male lawyer stood to the side of the table, his briefcase on the table and his hands folded neatly behind his back. The dark skinned gentleman's crisp and immaculately smooth suit in conjunction with his neutral expression made him seem almost like a statue, but Jackson could feel authority radiate off him as well.

The woman collected a tube of lipstick from her briefcase. He had seen, and planted, enough smart jammers in his day to know an electronic frequency blocker when he saw one. Without looking upward, he knew that the red light on the room's surveillance camera had blinked off. As the blonde closed the tube, Jackson leapt to his feet and the male lawyer immediately backhanded him. Jackson stumbled back, unable to move very well due to the restraints on his ankles. The woman tossed the lipstick back into the briefcase and the dual snaps echoed in the room when she shut it. Before Jackson could regain his footing, she was already in front of him, pulling him up by the collar of his prison uniform. She leaned in close to his ear, and in the deep velvety voice saved for a lover, she whispered, "The Piper says 'hello.'"

Without giving her a chance to back away, Jackson smashed his head into hers with all his might, knocking her back onto the floor. The other lawyer pounded Jackson with his fists, inflicting upon him rapid hits one would issue in a boxing match. Jackson let himself fall to the floor and when the young man bent down to grab him, Jackson reached up and wrapped his handcuffed arms around his neck. He pulled the man down and released his hold on him so he could punch him in the eye and then again in the nose. While his attacker was disoriented, Jackson appropriated one of the chairs and slammed it down on him several times, cracking ribs and other bones with each blow. The man was barely breathing, but even barely was too much for Jackson. As he brought down the steel chair one last time, he did so on the man's head rather than his torso. A wet cracking sound filled the room.

Jackson didn't have a chance to set the chair down. A bony set of knuckles impacted the base of his spine and it rendered him helpless for a few seconds. As his body crumpled downward, strong feminine arms claimed him in a very masculine chokehold. Instead of fighting the hold, he used his legs to push himself backward and in the process shoved her into the steel table. In a flash, he wheeled around and struck his forearm across her throat, forcing her to gag as she gasped for air. Her arms flew around wildly as she panicked. Jackson's hands were close enough to the bottle of water on the table that, with a little effort, he could clutch it in his grasp.

"You put an oh-so-innocent bottle of water in the room," he said as he struggled with unscrewing the cap. It was not an easy feat to accomplish while handcuffed and holding down a thrashing woman, but he was feeling particularly motivated. "You cut the camera feed to the room," he grunted out as he finally made progress on removing the cap. "And you brought a date," he added, mindlessly nodding toward the remains of the other lawyer. "The only thing you didn't do is a good job of getting me off on all charges. A real public defender actually helps free criminals, especially the guilty ones. They want the attention so they can get a real job at a power firm and get the hell out of the public system. See, that's how I knew you worked for them. You only just confirmed it today."

"Do—do whatever you want to me," she spat, her voice rough and strained as she wheezed. "You're still a dead man." Jackson loosened his hold on her throat because she was finally starting to say the right things that he wanted to hear. "Prison loves pretty little bitches like you," she coughed out. "You're dead, one way or another."

Jackson made a disapproving face and returned maximum pressure to her throat. "Speaking of ways you're dead," he began, "would you prefer I break your neck or do you want to have a few sips of water?" Her only answer was a shrill whine of pain. "I'll take that as a drink," he answered on her behalf as he jerked her up by the hair, and tugged her into his arms and onto the floor. She didn't have a chance to resist him as he used her blonde locks to yank her head back and force water into her mouth. She tried to snatch his hair or scratch his face, but she was too tired and disoriented. She finally fell to the floor, a limp corpse whose hair was wet and whose make-up was runny. The poison meant for him was faster-acting and more painless than he had expected. Darn.

Jackson stood up slowly and looked from one body to the other, surveying his work. He had never done something so heinous or savage in his life. He wasn't particularly broken-up over it; it was kill or be killed. There was no room for weakness when one wanted to survive, and the man known as Jackson Rippner was nothing if not a survivor. He was wet, bloody, and bruised, and not all of the fluids on his body were his own. The adrenaline coursing through his veins was supposed to make him feel alive, make him feel like he wanted to live, yet it did nothing but remind him that he felt as he had always felt—like he was dead. If the Piper had his way, he would be dead in a more literal sense as well. Jackson wanted to live. He didn't know why exactly, but he suspected it was more of a control issue. Only Jackson would decide when Jackson would die, and Jackson wasn't ready yet.

He rubbed his bloody nose and mouth against the shoulder of his shirt in an attempt to clean off some of the blood from his busted lip and nose, but it didn't do much except make a bigger smear across his face. The door opened and two guards stepped into the room. One shut the door while the other approached Jackson.

"You know," the guard said, "there is a reason you didn't get charged with committing an act of terrorism." Jackson remained mute as a confident look of amusement and curiosity illuminated his inhumanly blue eyes. "Terrorists go to Gitmo. They're safe from the world in that place." The guard stepped closer and seized Jackson by the handcuff chain. "But here," he continued as he unhurriedly dragged Jackson toward the door. "Here is where we have a wonderful thing called Gen Pop. Accidents happen all the time here and it's a shame that these monsters never learn how not to fight so…_randomly_."

With the guards in the Piper's pocket and who knew what other surprises waiting for him, Jackson's thoughts evolved into a simple mental groan of misery.

It was going to be a long thirty years.

* * *

**TBC…**


	2. Ch 1: Prison is a State of Mind

**Chapter 1: Prison is a State of Mind**

* * *

**December, 2005**

Jackson inched forward in line. He held his cheap plastic tray in front of himself properly, the silverware neatly arranged in the section where it belonged. There was nothing else on the tray and most likely would not be at this rate. It wasn't the first time in his six weeks of incarceration that he would not eat. The guards responsible for scheduling meals made sure Jackson's section was the final bunch to eat, and Jackson specifically was usually last in line. It seemed a natural position for him as the least lethal of the group. He avoided confrontation to circumvent trouble, but he did not avoid people because that would be a sign of weakness. He never dodged eye contact; he held glances long enough to seem formidable enough to defend himself, but unimportant enough to be ignored. He never sidestepped walking near anyone merely to show a lack of fear. Thanks to his career, he had the skills necessary to become invisible and to use his strongest muscle—his brain—to navigate through life (and prison) safely.

The line progressed forward and Jackson was now only three people away from food. He let his head fall to the side as he stood bored, knowing inevitably that his grumbling stomach would have another loud and long conversation with him tonight. The servers in the cafeteria were inmates and they knew how to play the game. There was a clear prison hierarchy and in order to survive, those in special positions played the game. The most powerful inmates received the best and most of everything. Those who were nothing like Jackson Rippner received—

"Alright, we're out!" announced the duty guard at his position next to the serving line. He was middle-aged and dark-haired, and his crew-cut hairstyle brought attention to his chubby cheeks and chin.

"But you still have some potatoes—" a small teenager in front of Jackson had the nerve to say. The kid was serving time as an adult for something complex and bizarre—Jackson forgot what, exactly, because he truthfully didn't care. The kid never had a chance to finish his protest before the guard used his baton to knock the tray from his hands and then beat the kid's back one firm time, knocking him to the ground. Jackson stood indifferently, unwavering at the show the guard was putting on in front of him. Like all of the other guards, this one was in the pocket of the Company. He often tried to intimidate Jackson without directly confronting him. It was a psychological tactic used for breaking down the enemy, weakening their defenses, and putting them in a state of emotional limbo and mental paralysis. Jackson was a fully-functioning sociopath and the king of mind games, so if the guards wanted to play, he was ready.

"You okay there, son?" the guard asked in mock-concern. "Get him up and take him down to solitary so he can think about things," the guard instructed two of the new guards who were still learning the ropes of the place. They were young and half-scared out of their minds to be in the most dangerous room in the prison where the inmates were free to walk, talk, and use silverware.

Jackson casually replaced his tray in the stack and his utensils in the bin. It seemed like a good idea, but apparently it was just the misstep that the guard needed. Then Jackson realized how he had walked into the situation. The only guards in the room now were the senior guards, the ones who were part of the "old boys club" who heard no evil and saw no evil, no matter what.

"Rippner!" the head officer barked. Jackson froze and turned around to face him.

"Sir?" he asked respectfully, his piercing blue eyes wide and alert.

"What the hell are you thinking putting your used food wares back in the stack dirty?" The guard briskly stalked toward Jackson, each step large and heavy.

Jackson cautiously reached out to retrieve the offending items. "I apologize. I'll just—"

"Stop right there!" the guard screamed. Jackson smiled at his own stupidity once again. This time he had really set himself up beautifully. The guard could now proceed in pounding the hell out of him for reaching for a "weapon" during a verbal confrontation.

Jackson felt the baton impact the base of his skull and he went down face first like a wet rag doll. The cafeteria became filled with the whooping and cheering of over a hundred inmates who loved a good show, and everyone knew Jackson Rippner was a dead man walking. The guard picked up Jackson by the back of his shirt and threw him against the wall. Despite his heft, the guard was on him in no time, holding him up off the ground and hammering into his face with his left hand. Jackson heard a crack and felt a cold flush run through his body as a flood of warmth poured like spilled milk from his nose. When the guard noticed Jackson was bleeding so severely from the face, he used both hands to repeatedly slam him into the wall. The red-tinted room got darker and darker until Jackson's vision went black and the room faded away.

Jackson was awake and he was pretty sure his eyes were open, but he couldn't see anything. He opened his mouth to speak, but pain seared through his jaw and cheeks. His words converted into a mumbled groan from the back of his throat, but apparently that was enough.

"Don't speak. Save your energy," said an eloquent male voice. Jackson remembered the voice and could picture the face that went with it. It belonged to the doctor who treated him on his first day of incarceration. Dr. Walker was his name, he believed. The man with natural blond hair and pale skin was around Jackson's age, but he seemed much younger and rawer to the world. His face was naïve and virtuous, and prison was not the place for him. His innocence was to be cherished and celebrated, not destroyed by the worst life had to offer. If Jackson could live a life of "ignorance is bliss," if he could trade places with the doctor, he would in a heartbeat. But, knowing the doctor, he probably thought he was helping the helpless, saving the masses, changing the world. Unfortunately, though, the only thing he was doing was changing himself.

"They got you good this time," the doctor commented close to Jackson's face. Jackson could faintly recognize the touch of a human hand on his face, but he couldn't quite determine where he was touching or how. His face was swelled to twice its usual size—perhaps more so—and his painfully bloated and bruised eyes were sealed shut. His nose was broken and his lips were more engorged on the right side of his face than the left. His entire body felt out of joint, as if every bone and muscle had been knocked out of place. The base of his neck was pounding, and his head and spine ached in oversensitive agony.

"Do you remember what happened?" the doctor asked Jackson. "Squeeze my hand once for yes, twice for no." He took Jackson's hand into his rubber-gloved hand. Jackson squeezed twice because he wasn't quite sure of the details.

The doctor looked away and sighed. "Bellman says you pulled a knife on him. I happened to walk in to give the staff a list of dietary restrictions for some of my other patients when I saw him drop you to the ground and pull his gun on you. I insisted we get you to the medical ward. Rippner, I don't know what you've done to piss off so many people," he began, remembering his initial exam of Jackson's throat injury and bullet wounds, as well as Jackson's mysterious cuts and bruises on his first day. "But whatever it is, you may want to stop doing it. You'll be dead in no time at this rate and I can't save you. You know how prison works."

Jackson squeezed his hand once before rearranging the doctor's hand in his own, positioning it almost like a weakened handshake. He blindly clutched the doctor's hand firmly for a few moments, hoping he could translate his message. The doctor understood and smiled sadly. "You're welcome."

Jackson could hear the sound of the doctor scurrying around the room. In another world, in another lifetime, this could be Jackson. He could be a doctor, saving the body and mind of those in need. He could be a teacher, inspiring future writers and philosophers to bring life to human creativity. He could be a politician, vowing to stop terrorists before they harmed innocent men, women, and children. He could be the Manager of a hotel—

Jackson heard the sound of the doctor removing his gloves and washing his hands. A male nurse came in and whispered his bid of goodnight to the doctor as the doctor straightened papers on his desk. A few moments after the nurse called it a day, the doctor did the same.

"Goodnight, Mr. Rippner. Merry Christmas." It almost sounded sincere. That made it all seem just a little bleaker to Jackson.

A few seconds later, all was quiet again as the doctor flipped off the light switch and Jackson was alone on December 24, 2005.

* * *

**February, 2006**

Time had passed slowly for Jackson. By February, he had begun to feel more like himself again. His bruises were now ordinary looking, not unlike something from a bar fight or a car accident. Everything was back to normal size, for which he was grateful. His nose, luckily, was healing nicely. He was not a vain man, but he knew his face was the proverbial "money maker." People could spot a roughed-up thug for hire a mile away, but an attractive, inconspicuous man who had clearly never been involved in violence added value to the deal. People trust a pretty face, especially women—or at least they did right before they head-butted it, threw things at it, stabbed at it, and shot at it with their fathers.

Truth be told, he had trusted a pretty face too. He would never make that mistake again—assuming he would ever be free and have the chance to make such an error of judgment.

Jackson's hands were in his pockets, more for warmth than appearances, as he strolled around the fence of the prison yard. He watched the sporting competitions, occasionally observed longer than necessary some of the secret trades and negotiations, and nodded a brief hello to the few individuals who were actually kind to him willingly. Dr. Walker had suggested after Christmas that Jackson should begin playing the prison game. He was not a fan of this idea, as it would put him too much on the radar, but Dr. Walker didn't want to see him come in the medical ward inside a body bag rather than on a stretcher.

He tried to dislike Dr. Walker, the pretentious and ever-optimistic do-gooder, but the man's steadfast sincerity made it impossible to hate him. Walker's need for good things to happen to others seemed connected to his own self-worth. If Jackson was beaten, for example, Dr. Walker would see it as his own personal failure to save Jackson. It was a twisted mindset that belonged only to those who were perfectionists at their jobs in the name of righteousness. Jackson was a perfectionist at his job, but never for the greater good. He was a man of logic. A completed job was a good job. A good job was a job with the desired end. The desired end was the one the customer requested. The job the customer requested was the one he or she would receive. The quality was all or nothing for Jackson, whereas for Walker, the quality was subjective and prone to never-ending analysis and self-reflection.

Jackson considered starting his running routine again. He had not had the chance to run since before Christmas, and this was as good a time as any to resume it. The bell sounded, followed by the usual announcement for the inmates to go back to their cells. Jackson moved to head in when a shoelace tightly wrapped around his neck heaved him back into the hard chest of an inmate twice his size.

"The Piper says 'hello,'" the giant whispered in his ear. Jackson choked while struggling to free himself from the lace. He was accomplishing nothing except ineffectively scratching the flesh off his own neck. The other prisoners walked by them as if nothing were happening and the guards stood at their posts without even feigning disinterest. They merely watched in silent appreciation for the show happening in the middle of the yard.

It took seeing white spots in his vision for Jackson to understand something. Jackson "Mr. Perfect Manager" Rippner was not going to survive in prison. Jackson Rippner the monster, however, could very well survive.

Jackson stopped struggling and let himself fall as dead weight in the arms of his attacker. When his assailant stopped pulling on the lace long enough to look down at his work, Jackson elbowed him in the gut.

And nothing happened.

Pain surged through Jackson's arm. "Shit," he muttered, but his voice was lost in an excruciatingly hard exhale of trapped air that adrenaline had forced out of him. He was more lightheaded after regaining his breath than when he was struggling for it. His aggressor was repositioning to pull the lace taut again when Jackson lunged forward, dragging his attacker with him to the ground. Once down, Jackson used his smaller size to his advantage by finding his footing first and proceeding to kick the other inmate's face. When his opponent regained his bearings a little more, Jackson kicked him in the groin. It flew in the face of the rules of male combat on a fundamental and unspoken level, but then again, it was already established that he was the prison's "bitch" so he may as well fight like one. As his adversary was curled in the fetal position, his hands protectively covering his family jewels, Jackson grabbed the shoe lace and came up behind him. The lace didn't fit the large man's neck as well as it had fit Jackson's, but he would make it work one way or another. With some effort and dedication, Jackson finally cut off his enemy's air supply, and following a few moments of struggle, the man took his last breath.

Jackson was dizzy from adrenaline, fear, aggression, and countless other chemical reactions his body felt but his mind refused to admit. He stood up proudly, his face grim with determination and his eyes filled with wild savagery. The healing bruises, combined with the self-inflicted scratches on his neck and the deep red line from the shoe lace, made him quite the sight to behold.

The guards remained still and silent as he nonchalantly fell in with the rest of the inmates who were returning to their cells. They once again saw no evil and heard no evil. Normally when one inmate killed another, there were charges pressed, trials held, and sentences extended. When something involved Jackson Rippner, everyone came down with a sudden case of selective blindness and nothing happened. Life went on as if nothing had ever occurred. When he reached the guard at the door, Jackson paused long enough to say, "Tell the Piper Jackson Rippner says 'hello.'"

* * *

**July, 2006**

Jackson was once again in the infirmary. This time, an inmate had somehow gotten a butcher knife from the kitchen and, long story short, Jackson now had a lovely scar in the making just shy of his hairline on the right of his forehead and down onto his temple. He had just cut his hair the week before, shaving the longish locks completely off. At the time, it had seemed like an instinctive thing to do, but in retrospect, it now seemed symbolic. He had not cut his hair since a while before his assignment on the plane and it had grown quite long in the meantime. Upon deciding that he was going to fight back, Jackson found himself in the chair of the prison barber (who was luckily one of the inmates who was civil to him). The next thing he knew, he was completely bald. It was a clean slate. It was starting over. It was having nothing of the man he used to be before his life went to hell. Now, with what could only be referred to as glorified peach fuzz for hair, Jackson had a cut that made him look like a truly hardened criminal. So much for the money maker.

"How are things?" Dr. Walker asked Jackson as he dabbed at the gash in an attempt to stop the bleeding long enough to close it up.

"Fucking dandy," was Jackson's curt reply. Walker merely raised an eyebrow without looking away from the cut.

"I see," he replied, sounding like a disapproving older relative who was disappointed at receiving a vague grunt when asking the kids about school. "Have you given any more consideration to being on the non-bloody end of the fight?"

Jackson rolled his eyes. "I knew I was forgetting something when I left the house this morning. And here I thought I had left the oven on."

"You know, Jackson, alliances are everything in prison."

"I tried that, remember?"

Walker made a "tsk" sound as he surveyed his instruments before he retrieved one. "That's not quite what I mean. Actually, I was thinking, there are a lot of powerful men in this prison. Not just killers and rapists, but businessmen not unlike yourself."

Dr. Walker went to work stitching up the cut. Despite his hands closely weaving in and out of Jackson's line of vision, Jackson didn't flinch or blink. Walker was intrigued by his enigmatic patient. Most of the men in the prison were pretty obvious with their self-explanatory personas. But Jackson Rippner—what could have possibly happened to this individual to make him become this sort of man? Was he even a man? He seemed more like an automaton or a cyborg. He absorbed things through his human senses, processed them like a computer, and spit out logic. There were so many mental health textbook definitions that Jackson personified perfectly, yet he seemed also to defy them by functioning almost "normally" in some ways. Could he feel anything at all? Walker dared to hope that perhaps Jackson felt things too deeply and instead opted to repress his humanity. Otherwise, why was this man fighting for life? Without love, why fight, why obsess, why live?

"There are some pretty well-connected businessmen in here serving long sentences. They will be here so long, in fact, that most of them have reconstructed their organizations within the prison walls. They have inmates in their service—some have worked for them before, others are brand new acquaintances."

Jackson stared ahead blankly, not bothering to acknowledge the man in his peripheral vision. "Mob lords are overzealous, self-obsessed demigods who pay crap for what amounts to indentured servitude. I may not have much, Doctor, but I do have my dignity."

Walker chuckled once. "You don't have to be a minion. I was thinking that your brain could be a valuable asset to them. Sell your knowledge. In exchange, receive protection."

"I'm not going to be someone's bitch in exchange—"

"I didn't say that. Jackson, listen to me." Walker stopped working and moved to stand directly in front of Jackson. "If you are trying to figure out how to set up accounts outside of the U.S., how would you do it from behind prison walls?" Jackson didn't answer because it was clearly a hypothetical question that the doctor asked for no reason other than to prompt Jackson's mind. "Prison walls can be a handicap to these organizations. They need creativity." Walker chose his words carefully. "They need …a Manager."

"Ah."

Walker resumed closing the cut. Enough had been said. Jackson had always hated the Mafia. They were overrated bullies who lacked class and finesse. They did things in a brutish, uncivil way and then bragged about their sloppy tactics. It was embarrassing for the entire professional community. But, as Walker indicated, beggars couldn't be choosers.

A cell phone buzzing interrupted Walker's work. "I'm so sorry," he politely apologized. He always behaved as if he were with socially acceptable equals rather than with inmates, and Jackson was sure Walker treated all of the convicts the same. "We're not supposed to carry these on our person to prevent prisoners from having access…" he trailed off as he checked the text message. "But my wife is due any day now and we're both a little on edge…"

"You're going to be a father?" Jackson asked, surprise sneaking into his controlled voice. He would have never guessed Walker was married, much less an expectant father. Then again, after spotting the gold band around the doctor's finger for the first time ever, Jackson remembered that most of his visits with the doctor were usually when he was unconscious, unable to see, or in too much pain to observe his surroundings and make visual assessments.

"Yeah. Why so surprised?"

"Doctor, you've been nothing but kind to me, and I truly appreciate that." Walker nodded, accepting his thanks graciously. "But you are one dumb son of a bitch. This place can kill you. Maybe physically, maybe not, but you'll become a man you don't want to be. Do you think the guards go home to hug their kids and go to Little League practice? No, they don't. It'll rot your soul. Don't make your child grow up with that man. Are we done here?" Jackson's lecture blurred together with his "are we done here?" so much that Walker almost missed the inquiry. For Jackson, this was practically an outburst of affectionate emotion. Was it possible that Jackson Rippner actually considered him a friend?

Jackson raised an eyebrow, non-verbally repeating his question with a single gesture. "Hmm, yeah, yeah," Walker distractedly answered. "Thanks, Jackson."

"Thank you, Doctor." Jackson slid off the table and walked to the door so the guard could escort him back to his cell.

The next morning, Jackson decided to begin reading the book he had checked out of the library. He had not read Homer's _The Odyssey_ since high school and it seemed like the thing to read, but he wasn't sure why. The story of a man lost at sea, separated from his love and his kingdom, and distracted by creatures that threatened to destroy him or make him a new kind of monster seemed off topic from his usual interests. He reached up and scratched his head, barely flattening the new growth of hair down to his head.

"Rippner, you're up!" a guard said, hitting his baton against the metal gate of his cell. "You have a visitor."

Jackson sat down at the visitation booth and almost fell completely out of his chair when he recognized the man before him. "Twenty minutes," the guard proclaimed. "Starting now."

Jackson picked up the phone to communicate with the tall, lanky late-middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair sitting behind the shatter-proof glass opposite him. His skin was tan and slightly red, suggesting he had taken in a game of golf before coming for this impromptu visit. "Samuel," Jackson spoke incredulously. "Let me guess: the Piper says 'hello?'"

Samuel laughed, which for him consisted of one side of his mouth curling upward just enough that a small sparkle could twinkle in his eye as a huff exited his nose. That was it. "Actually, he does. I'm here with his blessing. He wanted me to check up on you and he knows I'm loyal enough to the Company to do so without betraying him by helping you."

"Then why are we talking? I have things to do, people to kill," Jackson replied.

"Jackson, you know I'm loyal _to you_."

"I know that...really, huh?"

"Remember when that Fed, Steadman, infiltrated us. He was going to kill you and we were supposed to take him alive. And what happened?" Jackson didn't answer so Samuel answered for him. "I killed him to save you, Jackson." Samuel looked upward at the camera aimed at his face. "I killed Steadman to save Jackson Rippner." Samuel looked back at Jackson, whose eyes were wide as he comprehended the ramifications of his mentor confessing such an incident to a tapped wire. "No worries. I am feeding the camera a false loop right now so when the Company runs their lip reading application on me, they'll get everything I want them to hear from previously recorded footage. They aren't seeing any of this. We have total privacy right now and in any future visits. Like I said, I'm loyal to you, Jackson. Just you."

Samuel was a paranoid man, but paranoia came in handy for those in their line of work because everyone really was out to get them. A few years back when working a case in Australia, Samuel figured out how to use a green screen to alter footage in an elementary school while he retrieved a child for his client. Anyone who watched the live feed saw a "teacher" and a group of ordinary looking kids sitting in the classroom when, in reality, it was actually an operative who was disguised as the teacher with a group of kids on a green screen. When combined with the footage of the empty classroom, Samuel created the perfect illusion to cover his actions. Jackson had ridiculed him at the time, but now—he wasn't laughing.

Samuel was Jackson's first partner and mentor in the Company. He had trained Jackson and taught him the ropes. Despite neither man being overly expressive on the surface, they were actually quite different. Samuel was very emotionally driven. He thought out each situation based on human feelings and morality. He followed his gut. He gambled with his actions based on what he thought he could make happen. Logically, Samuel should have died years ago, yet somehow he had made it to his late fifties and he was still at the Company in good standing. His faithfulness was absolute, but it also varied based on situations. Samuel was a devoted Company man, but in this particular situation, his loyalty was to Jackson. Samuel probably thought of Jackson as some sort of son-like figure, but Jackson was too cold and distant to allow Samuel to even think about conveying such sentiment. Even if he did, Jackson wouldn't believe it. Jackson would rather go on in silence, trusting his mentor rather than emotionally identifying a connection that may change between them at any given time. He couldn't lose what he never had. It was safer that way for both of them.

"How are you doing? I hear it's been rough." Samuel grimaced, a slight expression that was just as nuanced as his smile.

"Peachy." That seemed to be his new catch-phrase as of late. It saved time and energy when he didn't feel the need or desire to be creative with his sarcasm.

"I see you have a new look," Samuel commented. He had only ever known Jackson with longer hair—never what one would call long, but long enough for Jackson to run his hand through it when he thought no one was around to see him deal with stress.

"Cut the shit and let's get to the point. Why does the Piper keep sending amateurs to do a professional's job?" Jackson adjusted the phone in his hand so he could hold it more comfortably.

"You insulted him. You didn't complete the job and when you followed up on it, you were just as half-assed about it then as you were on the plane. Your target and her father are alive and well, and you were the one that left on the stretcher."

"So the Piper wants them dead?" Dread filled Jackson against his will. The idea that she could already be dead at the hands of the Piper displeased him and he wasn't sure how to process that idea. She had been his assignment and his problem.

"No. They cleared out. The assignment was a total bust anyway. They have nothing incriminating, so further interaction with them on our part would just exaggerate an already sensitive situation. No, it's you that the Piper has the issue with. You were his favorite out of all of us."

"Not this again," Jackson muttered, looking down and wiping his hand across his face. He accidentally touched his stitched cut and hissed.

"You _were _his favorite," Samuel insisted. "He took it personally when you…how shall I put it?" Samuel pondered aloud. "Snapped," he said, settling for a classic term. "You were the guy who never fucked up an assignment. You're the one he would send in when things needed a delicate touch. You never had all those issues that the other agents had. You never felt sympathy for the target, you never faltered on the objective, you never had to resort to unnecessary violence, you never made it emotional. You never fell in love," he added.

Jackson's head jerked upward. There was more to what he was saying than what was on the surface, and Jackson wasn't sure if he appreciated hearing such insinuations from his comrade. "And I still haven't done any of those things. I arranged the target into the correct mindset. I just didn't have all the facts." The image of the grotesquely brutal scar on her chest filled his mind. He could have told Samuel about it to excuse his actions, but he didn't. It was none of Samuel's business. "I had no idea the target would—" _never let it happen again_, he wanted to say, but instead concluded with, "stand up for herself and a total stranger."

Samuel eyed Jackson suspiciously. He never hesitated in his speech pattern. He was always articulate and quick-minded, as if reading his words off of mental cue cards in his subconscious. What was in Jackson's mind, the truth or a prepared script, was always spoken aloud with strength and composure. Either prison was starting to play games with his mentality, or there was more to his target than anyone had considered.

"What's the Piper's plan for me? Is he still going to send thugs to do a professional's work or is he going to dignify me with a proper cancelation?" Samuel sighed. "Thugs it is," Jackson resolved. "I've fallen so far from grace that he wants to toy with me as punishment first. That's great." Jackson and Samuel didn't have anything to say to each other for a few moments as the reality of the situation sank in for Jackson.

"What do you need, Jackson?" Samuel asked sincerely.

"Aside from a homemade apple pie with a metal file hidden inside, I can't think of anything."

"Jackson," Samuel chided.

Jackson brushed aside his brief juvenile reaction in favor of his usual detachment. "I will have three questions for you each visit."

"Name them."

"'What's going on?' is the first one. I want to know the news, from local to global. I want to know everything from what politician is doing what with whom and where, all the way down to what celebrity train wreck passed out in her own puke the night before. I can get all of this in the newspaper, but I want it from you."

"Easy enough."

"Good. Question two: 'What do you think of the news?' I want your thoughts on it. I want to discuss current events and not just hear them. I can't understand something happening in another world from me without context, and you'll provide that context for me."

"Third question?"

"'And Lisa?'"

"You want me to check up on her?"

Jackson didn't hesitate in his response. "I want to know where she is, what she's doing, how she's doing it."

Samuel was taken aback. "Why? She's the reason you're in this mess."

"Precisely. She's the reason I'm in this mess. That's not something a man can easily forget."

* * *

**August, 2006**

Jackson crinkled his nose at the cloud of cigarette smoke that floated around him thanks to a gust of warm summer wind. They had just been released into the yard for the first time in a week after a series of bad storms. Mud and huge water puddles were everywhere, but at least the rain had finally stopped. The clouds still filled the sky, but they were fading away and taking their lightning and hail with them.

Jackson wandered around the yard by following the fence. One man occupied the fence in the opposite corner of the yard, and that man had friends around him. What a coincidence—Jackson was ready to make friends.

"Whoa there," said a middle-aged inmate as he held out his hands to halt Jackson in his place. He was skinny and short, and his thinning hair was far from subtly combed over. "Mr. Marconi doesn't like rude interruptions."

Jackson's high cheekbones seemed a little higher as his eyes shined down at the shorter man in amusement. "That's good because I'm not being rude. I came to offer a gift to Mr. Marconi."

"Oh?" asked one of two decidedly larger men who were closing in behind the spokesman as his backup.

"If Mr. Marconi wants his gift, he can ask to see me."

The three men were taken aback and exchanged baffled looks. Jackson was clearly out of his league and venturing dangerously close to offending their boss, and offending a Mafia lord was not the best idea for a prisoner who was already on everyone's hit list.

"Send him over," a fourth man ordered as he approached the group. "Right this way," he instructed Jackson, gesturing for him to walk first. Jackson was half expecting to be jumped yet again, but he proceeded ahead regardless.

"Mr. Marconi," the fourth man said as means of an introduction between the boss and the "gift-giver."

The elderly superior grunted. "What kind of punk are you? You walk up without an appointment, don't introduce yourself, offer a gift but make an old man beg for it! You must have balls of steel or balls for brains. Which is it?" Marconi looked like he was in his late seventies—at the very least. He was completely bald on top, with only a thin layer of hair wrapping the back of his head from ear to ear. His face was filled with large wrinkles of fat flesh in lieu of lines and creases on his skin. He was plump and had a seemingly harmless Santa Claus gut, but appearances were often deceiving.

"Jackson Rippner. And I am the gift."

He coughed a laugh, the type of chuckle a chain smoker would make. "What makes you so special, Mr. Rippner?" Marconi sat perched at the top of a five-level stand of bleachers. He was alone, so it was evident that this was the throne from which he ruled the world—or the prison—or perhaps just the bleachers. Either way, he was the ruler of something, if in no place other than his own mind.

"Good help is hard to find. I'm good help."

"Apparently not. I've never heard of you."

Jackson smiled a cocky smirk. He rocked back and forth on his heels as he nodded. "Never hearing about me before now proves how good I am. My previous occupation was a Manager."

For the average person, and even for the average criminal, saying one's occupation was a Manager would seem insignificant and ordinary, but it apparently meant something fundamentally different to Marconi. "Interesting, interesting," he muttered to himself, not concealing the fact that he was checking out Jackson's physical appearance and taking inventory of any outward details that could benefit him.

"So, am I right in saying you're more brain than brawn?"

"You wouldn't be mistaken, but I have been known to be good with a knife from time to time. As a rule of preference, though, I am partial to mental work and non-violent assignments. I like arranging the Dominos and letting them fall the way they need to fall."

Marconi was still thinking over the knife part. "Rippner. I haven't heard that name before. But some bastard named Jackson Somethingorother, _that_ I've heard before. You work for Anzalone?"

"I did a job interview with Anzalone," Jackson admitted, "but we disagreed on certain terms and we parted ways." Marconi nodded, remembering the story as he heard it from his cousin Francis who heard it from Sylvia's butcher Mario who heard it from his best friend Tony's brother Carlos. Jackson Rippner did not like the money offered, or the conditions of the job, so he took off Little Nicky's middle finger and fed it to him on the way out the door.

"You're a ruthless bastard, as I hear it."

"It's all poor memory and gory over-glorification," Jackson insisted humbly. "He pointed a gun at me when I turned down his boss and he lost the finger when I cut the gun out of his hand. And there was no cannibalism involved. I think that rumor got started at a butcher shop in Queens, actually," Jackson said, attempting to remember the situation as accurately as possible.

"In which areas would you need my assistance?" Jackson respectfully inquired, redirecting Marconi back to the job interview at hand.

"Redirection of funds. Control of outside personnel. Loyalty exercises. Ease of communication."

Jackson closed his eyes and nodded solemnly. "Not a problem."

"What do you want in return?"

Jackson looked at the ground for a moment, gathering his nerve and hoping he could convey his request without sounding weak or needy. That would completely undermine everything he was working toward building with Marconi. "Physical protection on prison grounds since, after all, I am more brains than brawn."

Marconi snickered. It seemed like something a sweet grandfather would do when listening to a grandchild's story of fantastical playground adventures. "Obviously." Marconi stood and carefully navigated his way down the bleachers. Jackson remained still, not wanting to step out of place and destroy this fragile agreement. Marconi offered Jackson his hand and Jackson shook it firmly. "Welcome to the Family, Rippner. Do me proud."

Jackson roamed down the next aisle as he continued his search. He quickly located what he was looking for on the top shelf, third from the end. He had just finished reading _The Odyssey_ and was ready to try something new. The librarian suggested he leave the comfort zone of mainstream classics and try a French classic _Cousin Bette_ by Honore de Balzac. Despite being about women, the book was not considered Jane Austin-esque "chick-lit," so that was definitely a plus in its favor. The librarian thought Jackson would appreciate reading about female interactions by a male author who had his own off-the-beaten-path views of society. Bette was a woman who was essentially the personification of male logic, and as she conspired to destroy those around her, they collaborated against her in the ultimate war of the feminine versus the masculine. After reading the back cover of the book, Jackson understood why the librarian had suggested he read it. Someone _evidently _had his own opinions of Jackson Rippner based on what he had seen on the news.

"New book, Princess?" asked one of the inmates as he stood in front of Jackson, trapping him in the aisle. Every single attack was a new scenario, a new person, a new encounter. The Company wanted to remind Jackson that their range was far and wide, and that there was no limit to the number of people inside the prison walls that they could recruit to take him out at their whim.

"Yes, but unfortunately for you, there aren't any pictures aside from the cover," Jackson lamented.

"The Piper—"

"—'Says "hello."' I know, I know." The convict started closing in on Jackson. "But you know what else I know?" Jackson queried calmly. The man stopped, unable to avoid being perplexed. "I know how to make friends wherever I go," he shared, flicking his index finger forward to indicate that the inmate should look over his shoulder. When the inmate turned, his face encountered a large fist that belonged to one of Jackson's new associates.

* * *

**November, 2006**

"…and that goes before the Senate next week."

Jackson considered it for a moment. "Has Keefe made any statements about it?"

"Just that he thinks it would be a massive mistake for them to overturn this one."

Jackson remained silent. "I think that failure to include it as a part of Homeland Security would open the doors to future attacks—but it would make our jobs easier." Samuel chuckled. "Okay, it would make _my _job easier," he rephrased for accuracy.

Jackson leaned back in his chair, his phone cord stretched to full length. They both knew the last question was coming.

Samuel tried to read Jackson's face. When Jackson had first asked him to check on Lisa, it seemed like a selfish request made by a vengeful mind. Now, he wasn't so sure. Jackson was always a rather blank slate. He had a day-to-day poker face that was impossible to surpass, but when they mentioned Lisa, his usual ambiguity transformed into a cold, heartless void of humanity. There was nothing there to indicate feelings, positive or negative. His blue eyes even seemed to become clear and transparent, the lack of life in them making them as useless a tell as anything else in his body language.

Samuel was not a fan of stalking Lisa Reisert. The girl was nothing but trouble, but Jackson couldn't stop his obsession with her. He sure picked a hell of an issue to suddenly be "human" about. The first time Samuel reported on Lisa, it was something simple: "She's fine. She never leaves her apartment except to go to work." Jackson flew into a rage, or what was a rage for Jackson, and told Samuel that if he wasn't going to help him, then he should leave. After their fight, Samuel found himself giving in to Jackson's demand for more detailed information on Lisa. Each time, the nuances of the story were more particular, the length of the account was longer, and the attention paid to Lisa's emotions became more intimate. Samuel had better things to do in the course of his day than monitor Lisa, but Jackson wouldn't hear of it.

"And Lisa?"

Jackson was in a back corner of the library at a table. Papers were sprawled all around him, as well as several books he had checked out to read next, including _The Count of Monte Cristo _and _The Scarlett Pimpernel_. He was attempting to make it look like he was doing legal research like some of the other "innocent" prisoners. The library was nothing if not well-stocked with law references. His research, though not an attempt to free himself, was in fact about the legal system—and how to work around it from behind prison walls. He loved irony.

His newest "dog" was on guard duty at the table next to him. He did not even bother with the pretense of working. He merely sat there, straight and proud, with his bulky arms crossed over his equally thick chest. Jackson had learned his name was Baldwin, he was dumb as a wooden post, and apparently had to shave more than twice a day to keep a clean face. Testosterone practically floated in the air around him. Jackson had no respect for men like that beyond the veneration their strength afforded them. If those types of men did their jobs correctly, then they earned admiration. If they didn't, then they were yet another example of a "child left behind."

"Rippner," said an unexpected voice. Jackson looked up in time to see Baldwin stand between Jackson's table and the guard who had beaten Jackson in the cafeteria last Christmas. Usually once someone confronted Jackson, they didn't repeat the action. Repeated attacks would call attention to the situation.

Jackson had recorded all of his notes in code. The language was written as someone who was trying to find a legal way out of prison, but the hidden meaning was one only Jackson could translate. Regardless, he quickly shuffled his papers together and stacked the books on top of each other.

"I see you have a special friend now," the guard said, eyeing Baldwin. The guard was a big man, but Baldwin was an unmovable barge by comparison. "That's sweet."

"Is there a problem, sir?" Jackson asked confidently.

"Yeah, there is." Baldwin began to groan and shake, and Jackson realized he had been tasered by the guard. That was certainly unexpected. Jackson dropped everything and broke into a run, but he didn't make it far before the guard jumped him and brought him to the ground. He stayed on top of Jackson, his full weight effectively paralyzing him in place. "The Piper used to think this sort of behavior was cute. Now…now's he's getting pretty pissed. You're a pain in his ass, you know that!"

The guard punched Jackson a few times, busting open his lip and hitting his eye with so much force that blood filled it and dripped out like demonic tears. The guard clutched his head on either side and repeatedly slammed it into the concrete floor. Jackson heard a crack moments before the guard lifted his head up to smash it down yet again.

In that instant, Jackson knew he was about to die. His life should have been flashing before his eyes, but it wasn't. All he could see was Lisa. _You failed, Jack_, she cruelly taunted. _You failed!_ It was part past, part present, and it was from a future that would never happen.

"Leese," Jackson moaned as he closed his eyes and awaited death.

"Do you ever get the feeling of déjà vu?" Dr. Walker asked from his desk when he noticed Jackson was awake. He closed the folder he was looking at on the computer and approached Jackson's bed. Jackson didn't look as brutalized in the face as he did the first time they met after one of these assaults, but he still wasn't a pretty sight. His eyes were open and the blue orbs were wide and attentive to the ceiling as he tried to remember what happened.

"You're lucky that you have a hard head."

"I might be scrawny, but I'm sturdy," Jackson joked, his voice low and rough. His body had been through so much in the last year that he knew it would take a lot to finish him. Pens in the throat and cracks in the skull were nothing to him.

"Your new best friend Baldwin saved you," Walker told him as he poured Jackson a paper cup of water from the pitcher at his bedside. He passed it to his patient as he helped him sit up. When Jackson lifted his head off the pillow, he felt the foreign presence of a massive bandage on the back of his head. "Baldwin tasered Bellman and got help for you. How do you like the Mob now?"

Jackson grimaced as he swallowed the water down his dry throat. "How bad is it this time?"

"Not bad. Few cuts and bruises, but your skull has a hairline fracture in it. It's nothing too serious, but I'm going to keep you in observation for the rest of the week. That should give you the time you need to regroup." Walker stood up and was about to leave when he abruptly stopped.

"Did I tell you about Angela?"

Jackson's red and purple face was clearly confused. "My daughter," Walker said, unable to stop beaming. He reclaimed his chair next to Jackson's bed and pulled out his cell phone. He flipped it open and pressed a few buttons before holding it out for Jackson to see. In the picture was an infant—red, wrinkled, screaming, and almost inhuman-looking. Despite this, Walker was beside himself with pride.

Jackson nodded approvingly. "She's lovely," he said awkwardly, uncertain of what to say. He had been fortunate enough to learn how to avoid bragging parents over the years. He could always read their eyes and body language and know the exact moment that the wallet or phone was about to come out with pictures for him to "oooh" and "ahhh" over, but now he was a captive audience.

"She's a screamer, like her mother," Walker said, laughing.

"Aren't all women," Jackson lamented, his head drifting away from the phone as his eyes took on a more distant look.

Walker closed his cell phone and placed it back in his pocket.

"Baldwin said that before you lost consciousness, you said a name."

Jackson carefully reclined back down on his pillow. This part, he remembered.

"Leese?" Walker asked.

Jackson ignored him.

"Is she your wife?"

Jackson faced Walker. Was this man serious? Did he truly know nothing about Jackson—about what he did, what was done to him, how he got in prison? Until now, he had been certain that Walker had done his homework, that he knew the nature of the beast he entertained in his infirmary. But now, he wasn't so sure.

"She owes me a Starbucks."

* * *

**April, 2007**

The gates were all open in Gen Pop, and Jackson was returning to his cell from the library when he perceived something was off. Everything in his room had been moved. It wasn't wrecked, but it had clearly been searched. If it had been the guards, it would have been ransacked. It was clearly Marconi.

He angrily slapped his open palm against the cinderblock wall and without hesitation stormed toward the prison yard.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Jackson demanded as he charged toward the bleachers that Marconi occupied.

Marconi looked to his right hand man and nodded. The man, an out of place Irish redhead, nodded in acknowledgement before taking a manila envelope out from under the back of his shirt and tossing it down on the dry, dusty grass in front of Jackson. The envelope was open and a few papers slid out of it. One of them was a newspaper article with Lisa's picture. Jackson didn't have to see the rest to know what they were. After all, he had been collecting publically printed content on Lisa since his first day of incarceration and hiding the envelope under his mattress. It was his hate porn.

"I understand old lovers. I understand ex-wives. I understand past employment 'connections.' What I don't understand is obsession. This looks to me like it's a problem. And problems are distractions and liabilities." Marconi paused, and everyone could feel the tension radiating off of him. "Is this a problem for you?" Marconi demanded.

Jackson huffed, and laughed deprecatingly as he shook his head. He reached up and ran both hands angrily through his once again longish hair.

"I asked you a question, boy! Is this a problem for you?"

"You raided my cell! You invaded my privacy! I don't have to answer shit!" Jackson vehemently bit back. He was about to march away when Baldwin and another man grabbed him by his arms and forced him back around.

"Don't get me wrong, Mr. Rippner. Your work has been superb. My business is better inside than it was outside," Marconi bragged, "but I like knowing what I'm dealing with. Until now, you were the open book you assured me you were, but this…" The gazes of Marconi and Jackson both fluttered down to the picture of Lisa sticking out of the envelope. "Baldwin told me you said a woman's name when you went down a while back. A woman I've never heard of. That's a problem for me. And if that's a problem for you, then that makes an even bigger problem for me. And a bigger problem for me is one that I will have to solve, and I don't like solving problems that aren't my own." Marconi snapped his fingers, and Baldwin and the other man let Jackson go in response. Jackson resentfully stepped forward and out of their grip as they released him.

Marconi patted the bleachers, indicating that Jackson should join him. "Give us a moment, fellas," Marconi ordered.

Jackson bent down and picked up the envelope, forcing all of its content back inside. He strode to the bleachers and sat down on the bottom row to the left so he could look back and upward at Marconi.

"Who is she?" Marconi asked. His harmless grandfather appearance was in place again.

"You know who she is," Jackson answered, not in the mood for games.

"Yeah, I heard about all that," the older man admitted. "But I'm asking _you_: who is she?"

Jackson considered the question for a moment. Maybe this was the same thing that had happened with Dr. Walker. Perhaps both men knew who Lisa was, but they were asking a different question altogether.

"I have no feelings for her one way or another. She was an assignment, an assignment I failed. She put me in here."

"So you wanna get a little vengeance? I can take care of it—just say the word, son, and it'll be done."

Jackson squinted in the bright sunlight. "Not quite," he vaguely drawled. Marconi was not sure if he was answering the question about vengeance, or if he was saying it wasn't as simple as giving an order and "being done."

"Is she a problem for you?" Marconi asked yet again, this time in a voice that left no room for avoidance.

"She's nothing I can't handle. But there is something you can help me with…"

* * *

**May, 2007**

This time, Jackson was sure he was going to die. "Four more," Baldwin coached. Jackson could feel every muscle in his body beg for mercy as he lifted up the bench press bar again, held it a moment, and then slowly lowered it. "Three." He was certain his muscles were melting under the unaccustomed stress. "Two." He was dripping wet and the lights on the ceiling were hurting his exhausted eyes. "One." Jackson grunted as he quickly went through the motions one last time.

Jackson knew that his chances of survival were dwindling with every passing day. Baldwin couldn't be with him every waking moment, and even if he could, there was nothing worse than being at the mercy of someone. People couldn't be trusted. It was Jackson's mantra because he was one of "people" and he knew first hand that they couldn't be trusted. That was why he decided it was time that he learned to fight, to survive through the power of both his mind and his body. Marconi was making arrangements for him to have a fighting instructor, but for now, Baldwin was preparing his body.

Unfortunately, he was still pretty sure that the bench press had killed him minutes before and that his body had been too exhausted to actually stop living.

"Good," Baldwin said, his voice dragging Jackson back to the real world. "Now let's run."

* * *

**July, 2007**

They were still waiting for Jackson's fighting "expert" to arrive. Jackson had discovered that the man had to first get himself arrested and sentenced in this prison before he would be available. When Marconi made what he called "arrangements," he apparently went all the way. Jackson was surprised that someone would actually let himself be degraded and penalized in such a way for a job, but then when he reconsidered it in the context of his own occupation, it made sense in a twisted way.

Until then, Baldwin had taken on the role of teacher with regards to weight and cardio training, as well as raw street fighting. Baldwin was not a trained muscle for hire, but he was a survivor. Those messy, unpleasant survival skills were what Jackson wanted most. He had seen that passion for life only once before and now he was going to learn how to channel that same drive.

Jackson shook his head to get his long hair out of his face. The scruffy beard that he had let grow was taking shape and actually looking like a beard rather than mere laziness. He bent over and waited for Baldwin to make the first move. Baldwin charged at him and when Jackson lunged at him, both ended up colliding, with Jackson—the smaller of the two—going down. As Jackson fell back, he focused his strength on tossing Baldwin over his shoulder as he did a roll. After Baldwin hit the ground, Jackson jumped on top of him and made to hit him in the face.

"Good," Baldwin praised his technique. "Now let's try something else."

* * *

**October, 2007**

Michel was a French-American in his late thirties. He was around Jackson's height and he was a full, healthy weight. He was thick with muscle mass, but it wasn't ripped and clearly defined muscle. He had the body of a swimmer or a dancer, a body that was strong and capable, but would be easily ignored on visual scrutiny alone.

He stood like a stone statue, his hands casually by his side. He was completely relaxed and at ease in his own element. Jackson stalked around him, looking for a time, a place, a weakness, a moment to make his move. He was able to eat better after joining Marconi's "Family," and with Baldwin's help, he had started gaining muscle mass. He was beginning to look more like Michel than Baldwin, and he hoped one day he would be as solid and proficient as they were.

Jackson swiftly threw a single backhanded fist at the back of Michel's head, but Michel ducked it, rolled on the ground, and came up with a kick in Jackson's face. Jackson took the blow and fell to the ground.

"We try again," he said in French. Technically, he should have said merely "Try again" since Jackson was the only one who had to do so, but he always included the "we." Jackson had never been on the receiving end of customer service before, so it was an odd sensation being pacified like that. He made a mental note of the feeling so he could one day use it to his own advantage if—when—he returned to work.

Jackson moaned. "Explain it before we do it," he requested (or pleaded) in French. He and Michel only spoke in French for Michel's convenience. Although Michel spoke perfect English, he preferred his full attention on what he was being paid to do rather than how he communicated.

"There are no explanations in life, so there are no explanations in learning. We try again."

* * *

**March, 2008**

Jackson jumped on Baldwin's back, caught him in a choke-hold, and heaved him to the ground. Once on the hard gymnasium floor, Jackson made as if to snap Baldwin's neck. "Good," Baldwin responded, more than a little affected by Jackson's improving skills.

* * *

**June, 2008**

Walker put the bandage tape away while Jackson inspected his newest dressing. Michel had stabbed him with a sharpened cafeteria knife that Marconi had "made available" for them to use in practice. So far, all of Jackson's training with Michel had ended in pain and agony, and he had yet to win against him. Regardless, he was learning a lot. Whoever said knowledge could be painful definitely knew what they were talking about.

"How's training?" Walker asked in a low voice. Working out on prison grounds was one thing, but learning what Michel was teaching Jackson was something completely different and most certainly not permitted.

"'Slow and steady wins the race.'"

Walker nodded approvingly, even if Jackson's detached words made his blood run cold. Jackson clearly had an endgame, and for the first time since knowing him, Walker was nervous about being in the room with him. He didn't know the full extent of Jackson's training. In fact, he knew nothing aside of Jackson saying he was learning to fight so that if he came to the infirmary injured, Walker wouldn't think he was being attacked again.

Jackson patted the bandage covering the knife cut on his forearm. "Thanks for the patch job, Doc."

A few days later, Jackson kicked Michel in the stomach. Michel wasn't anticipating the blow, but he took it and quickly reached out to grasp Jackson's leg before he could fully retract it. Jackson let himself fall to the floor, taking Michel under the weight of his leg when he did. He quickly threw himself atop Michel, who was gripping the knife in his hand where it rested on the floor above his head. As Jackson attempted to dislodge the knife from his hold, Michel brought the knife up in the air to stab Jackson. Jackson managed to claim the knife and aim it down at Michel's chest, stopping a mere inch from his heart.

"You win," Michel congratulated him for his first victory in any of their sessions.

* * *

**January, 2009**

Jackson tugged his long hair back into a pony tail as he entered the gym. Michel had said he was going to be there for one last session before he was let out on parole (as arranged by Marconi, of course). The gym was empty and oddly quiet.

Jackson was about to leave for the prison yard when an arm wrapped around his forehead and a knife planted itself at his throat. "The Piper says 'hello,'" said a French voice.

This was no test.

Jackson threw his left fist behind him at Michel's head. It was a horrible technique for actually accomplishing a hit on one's attacker, but it was perfect for distracting someone. When Michel flinched, Jackson reared his head back into Michel's and then reached up to jerk away the hand armed with the knife as he slipped out of Michel's grip. Michel threw the knife to the ground and used the hand that had been wielding the knife to instead grab Jackson by the arm and hold him still while he kicked him in the face. He did a spin-turn and kicked Jackson again, this time in the torso. When Jackson doubled over, Michel struck his fist down in the back of Jackson's neck. Jackson dropped to the floor and didn't move.

Michel picked up the knife and knelt down next to Jackson's stationary form. "I'm sorry, my friend," he said in English. He raised the knife, but before he could bring it down, Jackson rolled over and drove his fist into Michel's chest. It knocked the wind out of him as he fell down into a slumped sitting position. The knife was lost on the floor somewhere, but Jackson didn't care about that. He wasted no time in getting behind Michel, seizing his neck, and rapidly twisting his head until he heard a snap.

Jackson sat on the floor, holding death in his hands.

* * *

**June, 2011**

"How was solitary confinement?" Samuel inquired, his voice straight but his face smug.

"Fuck you."

"I don't have time today, so let's skip to your favorite question." Jackson said nothing, but opted to shoot a death glare at Samuel. "Ask it. Now." Samuel's voice was serious, and his eyes were the eyes of Jackson's tough, no-nonsense mentor rather than his friend and colleague.

"And Lisa?" Jackson obediently recited, his words dripping with mockery.

"She knows something." Jackson's heart involuntarily skipped a beat. "After six years, they've determined she knows something—none of that Keefe stuff or even anything about you, but about them, the Company. _She knows about the Company, Jackson! _And after they get that information from her, they're going to sanitize her case for good." Jackson didn't say anything, but he was visibly attempting to absorb the heavy news of the day regarding Lisa. "Jackson," the older man began. He obviously had something on his mind, something essential that he had to impart to Jackson, but he couldn't do it. "Good luck," he settled for saying. "Make me proud," he softly added, his face almost parental.

Jackson wasn't prepared for the explosion that occurred on the other side of the glass. He flew out of his chair and through the air at least eight feet as an unexpected wave of fire took out Samuel and all of the empty visitation seats on the row next to him. Part of the wall was missing, half of the shatter-proof glass was splintered into millions of pieces that were scattered around the scene like glitter, and a few of the guards that were standing on duty were now nothing more than smoldering blackened forms shadowing the floor of the smoke-filled room. The fire response system kicked into action with a loud alarm, flashing lights, and a flood of water raining down from the ceiling. As Jackson's burning eyes became accustomed to the smoke, he could make out the light of day through the crumbled outer wall on the other side.

Without thought, without examining the pros and cons, without considering the ramifications for anyone involved, he picked up the metal chair and began to hammer it against what remained of the weakened outer wall.

He had a problem. And it was time he solved it like a man.

* * *

**TBC…**


	3. Ch 2: The Heart of Mystery

**Chapter 2: The Heart of Mystery**

* * *

**June, 2011**

Jackson's lungs were on fire. Then again, so was the prison. In record time, he managed to run the length of the prison ground, scale the fence while dodging the barbed razor wire at the top, and crash land against the hard ground on the side of freedom. The explosion had caught the visitors' wing of the prison on fire and it quickly spread. He didn't know where it had extended specifically (as he wasn't quite in the mood to hang back and see for himself), but it was bad enough that the guards had their hands full with the fire and in preventing a riot in the adjacent cafeteria. He was only one man and apparently they had deemed him to be more trouble than he was worth. They would hunt him down later and that knowledge gave him the confidence he needed to believe that it was possible to outrun them. So far, he wasn't doing too shabby.

Prison had been an uncertain part of Jackson's existence. Like anything in life, his sentence could have changed at any given time. He could have been there three minutes, three hours, three months, three years—or thirty years. He could have been killed in a simple shanking or in a guard's attempt on his life. As always, Jackson had a contingency plan in place for any given scenario. During his first week of incarceration, he had made use of the library's limited internet access, as well as their old fashioned reference maps. He had memorized the area as best as humanly possible and considered the various escape routes that he could take. Right now, he was following a six-year-old memory and things most definitely appeared different from amongst the trees.

He didn't have time to think about Samuel's loyalty or his sacrifice. He didn't have time to think about Lisa being a target. He didn't have time to think about what the Company would do to him now, much less what the government would do if they could somehow get their hands on him again. Instead, he focused on forcing himself to breathe—in through the nose, out through the mouth. He cleared his mind and concentrated all of his energy on running. It wasn't merely running that he had to do, though. Jackson's trial had been in Illinois so that he could receive "unbiased" treatment from a jury of his "peers", and he had been sentenced to serve his time in the state as well. Unfortunately, one Illinois tree looked just like another. He had to keep his mind fixated on going in a straight line. The sun was useless in the late afternoon, as it was blocked by trees, so attempting to follow it as a guide was pointless. All he could rely on was his brain. Jackson had always been good at puzzles.

The way he figured, he had at least two hours to make it to his destination, but the question was if his body could keep up with his agenda. The train tracks located just outside of the smallest nearby town were his target. Everyone would assume he wouldn't know the terrain. They would guess he was traveling by car. Many would even believe that he would get lost in the woods and never make it out. If he wasn't so busy concentrating on sprinting at full speed, leaping and zigzagging over large tree roots and underbrush while maintaining a mental record of his direction, he would have laughed at the impending failure his pursuers would experience when he, the man currently called Jackson Rippner, succeeded against all the odds.

When he was at least forty or fifty minutes away from the prison, Jackson came to an abrupt halt. His vision faded and he saw the world sway in the cover of shadows for a few moments. He commanded himself to breathe as he dropped unceremoniously to the ground. He half-expected to drop dead of a heart attack right then and there. "Ow," he whined, humoring his human need to hear a voice. He sounded a million miles away, as his voice was too weak to be heard over the dominating sound of his heart pounding in his ears. His orange jumpsuit was soaked and sticking to him, and his long hair and beard suddenly felt warmer and more uncomfortable than he had ever recalled. Even in his most strenuous workouts, he had never felt so physically exhausted.

When Jackson's brain started working again, he reflected upon one of his training sessions with Baldwin. After Jackson had completed his fastest sprint time ever, Baldwin had asked him, in his typical monosyllabic way, if he had been running from something or to something. The question had seemed superfluous at the time, having no bearing on his training one way or another. Now, however, the question was very relevant. Sure, Jackson was running from the authorities and even the Company, but the issue at hand was Lisa's role in all of this. Was he running to save her? Or was he running to her for payback?

Jackson's entire body screamed in agony as he ordered himself to get back on his feet. Without realizing it, he grunted with every movement like an old man who muttered an unwanted audio commentary to himself with every step. He started up with a slow jog and then resumed his full speed. He was running to her because she had never left his mind in six years and it was time to exorcise that particular demon one way or another.

* * *

Jackson finally arrived at the train tracks at sunset. It was the worst time of day for visibility thanks to the hazy dim light that mingled with the impending darkness. There was a large clearing to the left of the tracks and dense woods to the right. Jackson took refuge in the woods for over an hour as he waited for a train to come by. He had researched the railroad schedule six years prior and discovered the tracks were still quite active, but a lot had changed in six years—and he had failed to keep up with his homework. He gave consideration to resuming his escape on foot until he heard a distant whistle.

Before he could even lay eyes on the train, Jackson took off darting through the small hallway-size space between the tracks and the woods. If he attempted this from the clearing, he'd be spotted instantly, but from the woods, he stood a chance. He just hoped it was a cargo train and not a passenger train. A cargo train would allow him privacy and space, and it would also be travelling at a slower pace through the small towns due to the high train-related fatality rates that plagued such rural areas.

Jackson was rushing as fast as his legs would carry him, and the train's engine and a dozen cargo cars passed him by as if he were stationary. The train was picking up speed after apparently leaving a town, making it faster than Jackson would have liked but slow enough that he still stood a chance. He was holding back for the perfect car to come by, but most of them were open-top bins or liquid containers, and neither was suitable for him to ride. At the end of the train were seven cargo bins with railing-lined walkways at their front and back. Jackson tried for the second one. He stretched out to clutch at the railing and fell to the ground, knocked away by the sheer force of the locomotive. He hurried to his feet, but his human inferiority let him watch his second, third, and fourth chances pass him by. At the sixth cart, Jackson lunged forward with everything he had, leaving all fear and inhibitions behind despite the possibility of a grisly death. His hands barely held their grip on the railing, and he was struggling to keep his legs off the ground with pure upper body strength alone. He would have been dead by now if it had not been for his work-out regime. Jackson's face was red and contorted as he heaved his body up against the might of the train. It took forever in his mind, but he was soon sitting on the small outer deck of the second to last train car.

Jackson opened the door which was, thankfully, unlocked. The car was stuffed with fairly large cardboard boxes marked by customs tags from the U.S./Canadian border identifying the contents as imported Canadian candy. Jackson shut the door and located a place to get comfortable on the floor. Beams of faint light were visible inside the car thanks to various holes and cracks in the metal container, but those beams soon faded into the same pitch black night that was outside the train.

* * *

Jackson's short sleeves had not offered any protection from twigs and branches in the woods, or from the impact of his dive from the train around 3 a.m., and he was just starting to feel the discomfort of all of it. He didn't know where he was, but he opted to follow the small town's street signs to the interstate. Where there was an interstate, there was a truck stop. Where there was a truck stop, there were truckers. Where there were truckers, there were duffle bags with fresh non-prison uniform clothing left forgotten in trucks while the aforementioned drivers ate a warm meal or caught a nap.

He didn't believe in luck, but he contemplated believing in it when he saw that the dump of a town—barely a glorified village at best—not only had a truck stop, but it was the nicest and newest building in the town. Although it was well-lit, it still had plenty of shadows that could successfully conceal the bright orange suit of a jailbird who had recently flown the coop. Jackson reverted back to his old ways. He glanced around. He picked a preliminary target. He observed it. The driver turned off his truck's engine, which suggested he was going to spend some significant amount of time at the stop. He exited the truck and headed for the small and lonely home cooking restaurant, the smell of which Jackson was having trouble ignoring. Once he had deduced the driver was out of sight and not coming back, he gave the rest of the parking lot a quick once-over.

Confident that he could not be seen, Jackson charged out from the shadows like an orange blur and climbed up the truck to the cab door. Luckily, again, the door was unlocked, but he driver had removed the keys. On the seat sat a duffle bag that was guaranteed to be used before the driver's stop for the night had ended. Jackson unzipped it and quickly inventoried the contents. There were a few personal effects that even he didn't have the heart to rob the driver of (as jail had made him soft), so he removed them and left them on the seat. Humans were so reliant on their physical, visual reminders of emotions. If they were so sensitive about something, they shouldn't have to have a reminder of it—but Jackson was not going to argue philosophy with himself at this time. He'd have plenty of opportunities to do it later.

He grabbed the bag and headed back to the shadows, leapfrogging from one dark spot to the next until he arrived at the locker room in the back of the truck stop. Careful to avoid the camera, Jackson surveyed the area to find something that he could use to block, turn, or even break the camera, but nothing was in sight. He peeked in the bag and discovered a pair of boxer shorts. Since he had no intention of wearing another man's underwear (he wasn't _that_ desperate yet and never planned to be), he took it out and threw it over the camera. He jumped up and tugged on the undergarments, pulling the camera to a new angle in doing so. Satisfied that the camera's new direction was different enough to conceal him but not altered enough to attract attention, he entered the locker room.

After a warm shower alone, in private, without anyone else, by himself, and with dignity, Jackson put on a pair of tattered jeans, a faded blue Led Zeppelin t-shirt, and a pair of dirty black and white Nikes. He took out the razor he found in the bag and shaved his beard. He didn't put much effort into it because he was trying to leave some stubble. People would be on the watch for a man with a beard or a man completely clean-shaven, but something in between would not even be on their radar. He grabbed his wet hair in sections and used the razor to saw it in lieu of properly cutting it since scissors were not an option available to him at the moment. When he was done, his shoulder-length locks were reduced to just below his jawline, giving him a grungy hippy look. He let his hair hang in his face and he held his head and body in a slightly hunched over way in order to take on his new persona. He had to sell his identity to himself if it was going to work with anyone else. He put on the faded and well-aged red and white flannel shirt to conceal his cut arms, heaved his prison orange rags into the bag, and put the bag across his shoulder. Taking one last look in the mirror and being satisfied at the disgusting and perfectly ordinary loser who glared back at him, Jackson walked out the door.

He had somewhere to be.

* * *

Jackson's hands were shoved in his pants pockets. His head was down. His hair drooped in his face. His duffle bag strap crisscrossed his shoulder to dangle behind him. He was outwardly pathetic and he was glad of it.

It was still dark, but there was a tingle in the cold night air as the sun loomed somewhere nearby in the distance. It would rise soon and the world would awaken. With any luck, though, the world's inhabitants would never realize they were in the midst of someone who didn't belong among them. The orange jumpsuit burning a hole in his bag was yet another reminder of how Jackson was a stranger in a strange land—as he had been his entire life.

He guessed it was around 5:25 a.m. He had always had a particularly keen sense of time. As someone who lived his life by clocks and watches, even when he was without one, he still had an awareness of time. He could feel it as strongly as another person's presence in a room. He knew what the seconds meant as they ticked away. Time brought him closer to deadlines, disappointment, confrontations, inevitability, responsibility, and death. Perhaps it wasn't in that order, though. Jackson was fascinated by people who could walk around without a watch. Having no respect for time meant one had no respect for his or her obligations in the system that connected all people. In Jackson's mind, the example was as clear as day: if he skipped an appointment with a client, the client would be upset, take matters into his own hands, and solve it in a far less orderly and diplomatic way. The ramifications would be obvious, loud, and painful for all parties involved, including individuals who would not have been impacted in the first place—all if Jackson had attended on time. Needless to say, he was always reverent toward time because it was the most powerful ally one could have. And it was also the most dangerous foe one could have. He wanted time on his side and not working against him.

Jackson continued his stroll down the side of the interstate. His leg muscles were burning and his feet were aching and blistered, but he couldn't stop. People were still looking for him, some in a legal capacity and some not so much for legal reasons. Worse than that was the fact that his face and story would grace every newspaper, television, radio, and water cooler conversation as soon as the sun rose. He had to successfully evade the eyes of everyone who came into contact with him by being seen without being noticed, being acknowledged without being remembered.

More than that, he had to figure out what to do with his old ally time. Lisa would be under watch by police, FBI, and the Company. Everyone would expect him to rush to her. Because of that logic, he had to stay as far away from her as possible for as long as he could. If she was under surveillance by the police, they would keep the FBI in line. If the FBI was monitoring her, they would keep the Company from making a move. Basically the local authorities would do his job for him by keeping her safe from the Company until he could reach her, but he couldn't reach her until the search for the Extremely Dangerous Escaped Fugitive Jackson Rippner calmed down. Plus, he had some preparations to make. He wasn't about to confront Lisa, his only genuine lead toward gaining an advantage over the Company and ultimately redeeming his freedom, until he was able to take care of her properly. When Jackson had made all of his arrangements and when he had confirmed that the authorities had deemed Lisa safe again from the threat of vengeance by the scary escaped pseudo-terrorist, he would go to Miami and make his move. It would take several weeks or even several months, but that time would inevitably fly by because time flies when one is on the run from—well, everyone.

Jackson had been walking along the side of the interstate long enough to become accustomed to the sound the cars made when they sped past him at the speed limit or faster, so when a set of headlights behind him made a different sound, he quickly prepared himself to face whatever was about to come from the slowing vehicle. A blue double cab Chevrolet truck drove onto the shoulder of the road ahead of him and then backed up to close the distance between them. The passenger door popped open a little and started to close when a puffy old hand pushed it hard enough to stay open.

"Need a lift?" called out a gruff voice.

Jackson stepped close enough to the vehicle to casually peek inside. It was an ordinary man. His exact age was most likely significantly younger than he appeared, but on the outside was the wrinkled and weathered skin of a man who had worked in the sun all his life for many long, hard hours per day. He had a full head of gray hair that was neither thick nor thin, and it haphazardly fell in all directions. He was chubby and had what was most likely a well-deserved beer belly developed from either nightly celebrations of the day being over or nightly drowning of sorrows at the thought of it happening again the next day.

"Which way are you heading?" he asked again, his voice just as rough and hard as the first time he spoke.

"West," Jackson replied automatically. He wanted to set a pattern for everyone to follow. Whoever aided Jackson would no doubt discover who he really was when they sat down to watch the news while eating cold leftovers or a sodium-filled frozen dinner. They would then do like all good law abiding citizens who wanted fifteen seconds of fame on their local news and report that they accidentally helped the escaped fugitive and that he was heading west to go north into Canada. What they didn't know, however, was that his plan was to eventually double back before arriving at his true destination: Miami.

"Get in. I can take you across the state line."

Jackson lifted the bag strap over his head and tossed it onto the floor of the truck before he pulled himself up into the vehicle.

It was disconcerting to be in a motor vehicle again. The train was different because he hadn't been on many trains in his life, as they were not available in most places, and where subway trains were available, they were impractical for his occupation due to no exits and no options. After spending six years in prison, the truck seemed odd and very different from what he remembered. It reminded him of the sensation one feels when putting on regular shoes again after roller skating, and even that sensation was one so distant in his mind that he was astonished it even came to him.

They rode in silence for the first few minutes. Jackson couldn't see the sun rise because of their direction on the road, but he could see it at an angle in the side mirror. His mind always perceived words, phrases, ideas, concepts, and other complicated thoughts in response to any stimulus, yet his mind was empty—"speechless"—at the sight of the orange mass appearing in the sky behind them. It was a tiny and insignificant dot at first, but the fiery aura surrounding the dot quickly reminded Jackson of the sun's power and dominance over all of nature. The sun was the king of the universe and it knew it. It had the power to create a new day and destroy life that it deemed unnecessary. It also had the power to cast its harsh light on things and people that were best unseen.

"Al."

Jackson's head abruptly twisted away from the mirror and to the driver. "Al," he repeated, casting a brief nod toward Jackson before returning his attention to the road.

"Owen," Jackson offered awkwardly, in character as the somewhat off hippy who didn't trust anyone. It was one of countless names that rolled around in the back of his mind under the category of potential emergency aliases.

"I'm going to work." Al laughed to himself. "It's a long-ass commute, but the pay's good." He sent another quick glance of polite acknowledgement toward Jackson. "Where you heading?"

"Home," Jackson said vaguely, totally in character as the troubled man with a past. "Washington state," he added. "My ex-girlfriend is still there." Jackson wanted to drop enough subtle hints so that when Al inevitably betrayed him to the proper authorities, he would mention the mysterious "ex-girlfriend" and that would result in Lisa being guaranteed protection until Jackson could join her. "I need to see her again."

Al smiled a large knowing grin as he nodded to himself. "Not going down without a fight, huh?"

Jackson smirked to himself. If only Al knew. "You could say that," he commented, his vivid blue eyes sparkling at the irony of the conversation.

"She must be worth it for you to hitch all the way back home. How long have you two been broken-up?"

"About six years," Jackson honestly replied. The light from the sun started hitting the mirror and it blinded him. He shifted marginally in his seat in an attempt to avoid it. "It was a rough break-up...almost killed me," he softly admitted, more to himself than Al. His character was shaking and his mind was losing concentration. Discipline and attention had always been strengths of his, and now he felt his attentiveness drifting. That's when he concluded exactly how exhausted he was. Despite his negative view of the human race, he was regrettably bound by the limits of its mortal coil and could not avoid being so bone tired. He felt like he was about to pass out without any control over the matter. He roughly ran his hands over his face and through his hair to coerce himself into full alertness.

"If she's worth it, don't stop until you get her back," Al continued. "Six years is enough for people to grow and change. You won't even be the same people anymore. So whatever it was that killed you guys back then might not even be an issue anymore." Jackson gave genuine consideration to Al's words. Was he the same man he was six years ago? Had prison changed him at all other than physically?

"Unfortunately, it will always be an issue," Jackson replied disparagingly. "It's not something that time can easily sweep under the rug. But let's just say I want to give her what she deserves and I won't stop until I do."

Al responded, but Jackson heard idle prattle that was garbled and nonsensical. His hearing, like his vision, was waning under exhaustion. He leaned his head to the side, letting it prop against the meeting of his seatbelt across his shoulder. He did not want to touch the vehicle more than he needed to in order to avoid leaving excessive DNA. The way it stood now, he could easily wipe down what few things he had touched bare-handed, and he had been smart enough to keep his sleeves over his hands when touching the door and the seatbelt.

Outside the window, he could indistinctly make out the cars travelling in the slower right lane. Al's gravel-hard voice rambled on and on, apparently satisfied with his one ended conversation. As they approached a dark car in the right lane, Jackson's eyes went wide, but he lacked the energy to lift his head for a better view. The driver of the dark sedan was Samuel. Jackson would recognize his immaculately groomed salt and pepper hair anywhere. Samuel's face was an indeterminable blur, but Jackson knew it was him. Jackson closed his eyes hard after not blinking for a few seconds, and when he reopened his eyes, the man with salt and pepper hair took a sip of coffee and removed the thermos from in front of his face to reveal that he was not Samuel.

Why had Samuel let himself die for Jackson? What was so important that his mentor had sacrificed everything? The Company wanted to clean the slate with Jackson and Jackson was over 100% certain he had nothing on them—nothing but Lisa, and even Lisa's role in this was an utter mystery. What could that…that _woman_ possibly have on an organization she knew nothing about prior to her encounter with Jackson, and possibly even after her encounter with Jackson?

* * *

_Jackson ran as fast as his legs would take him. He urged himself forward with a jolt of determined energy, but his legs protested even more. He concentrated on his breathing. "In through the nose, out through the mouth" were his repeated mental instructions as he stayed dedicated to the task of running his morning laps around the prison yard fence. When inmates stood in his way, he ran at them full-speed, and if they didn't move, he lurched around them at the last second—close enough to test his reflexes and leave them feeling the wind he generated rather than the pain of his body slamming theirs. It was just enough to make them uncomfortable enough to move and not stand in his way again._

_On the outside of the fence, there was nothing. No grass. No sky. No buildings. No world. There was nothing but the blackness of inexistence and Jackson maintained that mindset. He made a sharp turn to follow the fence through a ninety degree angle, and his breath hitched cuttingly in reply. He was now racing toward the building. Inside, he could see Samuel waiting to visit him. Jackson hadn't been called yet, so he ignored him, transferring Samuel into the same void of oblivion as the universe beyond the prison yard._

_"__Rippner!" the duty guard yelled. Jackson disregarded him and exhaled agitatedly. He pushed himself faster. "Rippner!" the guard barked harder. Jackson slammed his feet into the ground, breaking down his speed to an immobile halt. It was unhealthy. Everyone from doctors to trainers to sweet little old grandmothers who told Old Wives' Tales said not to do that, but he did it. The proper technique to stop a run was to cool down by slowing gradually and bringing the body back down to its normal pace, but Jackson savored the little buzz of discomfort that came with the abrupt finish. He liked the ache in his chest, the needles in his head, and the blur of black that passed in his vision from the sudden change in breathing. On a practical level, Jackson knew that if he ever had to run outside the prison, he would not have the luxury of proper stopping. He wanted to practice controlling his body, commanding it to abide by his expectations and requirements._

_By the time Jackson entered the visitation room, his breathing was under control and no one would have ever guessed he had been running a non-stop sudden-death marathon for twenty-six minutes (until rudely interrupted). Jackson gracefully slid into his chair and picked up the phone, his movements precise and poised. He was the personification of composure._

_Jackson and Samuel silently regarded one another, each resolute and inhumanly impassive. It was almost as if a film had been paused mid-scene, freezing the characters in one second of time and stretching it out to last for infinity. "A man doesn't run like that," Samuel softly whispered, as if confiding a secret to a close confidant. "What were you running from? Or to?" he added accusingly._

_Jackson's hard-held face seemed to open up and perhaps soften at the accusation, but an accusation of what, he didn't know. Either way, he took it personally. This was not the first time someone had made such a comment to him, and it was getting old. Everyone found his running to be far more interesting and revealing than it actually was. "Like everything I do, I was doing it for myself. I was running for me."_

_"__No you weren't," Samuel immediately answered. His forehead crinkled in contemplation. "Let's skip parts one and two and jump straight to part three." Jackson's eyes narrowed. "'And Lisa?'" Samuel quoted Jackson's own line to him, the words outrageously loud and violent to his ears. It sounded mechanical, almost like—_

* * *

Jackson lunged forward at the sound of a car horn being repeatedly honked. His blurry vision took a few moments to clear. When it did, he gathered that the vehicle was parked at a McDonald's. Al was out of the car, apparently in the building, and the parking lot and drive-thru lines were filled with cars all in a hurry and convinced that their time crunch was more important than everyone else's. Jackson sat up straight, slowly stretching out his cramped muscles. He was really starting to feel the pain of his escape. The truck's clock read 7:28 and the size of the rush hour traffic supported the theory that Jackson was in a bigger town.

The door clunked open, and Jackson was rather disappointed. He was hoping to have been back on the road by himself without having to leave Al in person. Al plopped into the driver's seat and tossed a bag at Jackson. "Several sausage biscuits," he said. He put a large orange juice and a frosty cold bottle of water in the truck's cup holders. "Thought you'd like the juice for now and the water for later."

Jackson was grateful, and perhaps even flattered, by the man's unrequested generosity. "Thanks," he said, his voice slightly hoarse by the uneven nap he had quickly, albeit accidentally, grabbed.

"We're in Missouri now. I work about five minutes down the road," Al said, nodding in the general direction of his place of employment. "When I stopped for gas earlier, I picked this up for you," he said, handing Jackson a map of Missouri that had already been marked, identifying where he was now and some possible routes he may want to take as indicated by hand-drawn lines and small scribbled notes of explanation. Jackson could not decide what astonished him more: that he had slept through two stops and who knew what else, or that this man was going out of his way to help a stranger, one whom he would later discover to be an escaped convict. "I don't have to be at work till eight. Anywhere you want me to drive you?"

Jackson looked around casually, trying to give the appearance of a man who had no clue what to do or where to go. He unfolded a small segment of the map and quickly scanned over it. Not seeing anything relevant to his current location, Jackson opened another section. He saw the star Al had marked for their current location. "Could you drop me here?" he asked, pointing to a highway that would lead him west.

* * *

Following a short ride, Jackson was back on the shoulder of the road, this time a state highway rather than the interstate. His leftover food and bottle of water were stuffed in his duffle bag. Closer to town, the highway was filled with bumper to bumper congestion for another hour after the morning rush, but the midday and afternoon found it quite desolate, more so the further he walked. Jackson kept his mind clear all day by thinking of everything he had read in the newspapers and was told by Samuel. He had to keep himself current, as to not give himself away by referencing time-dated subjects.

A few people stopped and offered rides, but he declined. He had to pick his rides carefully. People were easily manipulated, but also easily spooked, alarmed, and motivated. He could only accept rides from people who were comfortable offering a stranger a space in a dangerously intimate, closed-in private place, people who wouldn't be suspicious or panicky from the start. Some individuals offered rides to strangers all the time and they were always very alert because they wanted to help others, but they were completely suspicious and ready _just in case_. Those types, though helpful and full of good intentions, were entirely too unpredictable for Jackson's tastes. Others who were too suspicious would report him immediately and not give him time to make his getaway. He could only accept rides from folks who would most likely report it later after seeing his picture on the news, and a report on a trail that had long since gone cold was a useless trail to authorities, but a helpful one for Jackson. A suspected pattern of activity for his pursuers to follow couldn't make itself, after all. It required planning and precision.

A little before 4 p.m., a young woman stopped her Toyota Prius and offered Jackson a ride. She couldn't have been more than twenty years old, svelte, with blonde hair that was closer to natural than most blondes. Jackson was hesitant at first, but he elected to go with her when he realized there was a baby in the backseat. A young mother would undeniably have a story to tell the authorities once she comprehended the potential danger she and her child could have been in if Jackson had been any of his fellow inmates.

Jackson told her where he was heading and she cautiously turned back onto the highway. The radio was on and new music was playing. He had no clue how much mainstream music changed every few years until he started paying attention to what he was hearing. When he lived as part of the world, it all seemed like the same predictable sounds every few years with a new big name auto-tuning it out for the world to hear. This, however, sounded almost passably good. _Almost_.

He must have had an odd expression on his face as he stared absently at the stereo controls. "Sorry," she muttered, quickly turning the already low volume sounds down to a barely noticeable background noise. "It helps him sleep when we drive," she softly explained, not willing to chance speaking louder.

"It's not a problem," he said, barely above a whisper.

Jackson peered into the side mirror and could see the back of the baby's car seat. "How old is he?" he asked, faking interest in the name of the job.

"Six weeks," she responded, unable to avoid a small smile of pride that made her almost transparent pale skin illuminate a warm hue of pink. "His name is Phillip."

Jackson half expected her to follow up with a complete rundown of Phillip's six weeks of life, but he was pleased when she instead opted for silence. "I hope you don't pick up hitchhikers often with Phillip in the car." The woman's eyes drifted from the road for an instant, but she was too nervous to look at Jackson. Jackson chuckled disarmingly, the way only he could. "You were lucky this time. It's only me. But you really should be more careful."

She exhaled an awkward laugh of relief. "You had me going there for a second," she admitted.

"You know how the world is today," Jackson began sagely. He may have been playing the role of a broody hippy, but he was definitely going to pull out the "older and wiser" card for this girl. Someone who was looking out for her best interest but was in fact a felon would definitely be memorable for her. "There are nuts everywhere. I may be the hitchhiker of the two of us, but I have to tell you that I'm very careful about what car I get into. I've turned down quite a few rides today because…" he trailed off, and made a face as he shook his head disapprovingly.

"I know. And if it's like this today, I cannot even imagine the world Phillip will have to face." She shook her head. The nervousness of a few seconds prior had completely vanished and they were now bonding on a more significant level, much to Jackson's satisfaction. "Do you have any?"

Jackson's bright eyes went wide. "Sorry?"

"Kids," she answered.

He scoffed. "No. I leave the reproduction to the experts." Her jaw dropped open in surprise at his words and she stole a quick glance at him. "Parental experts," he clarified, professionally charming his way through yet another mind game. "The world couldn't do with two of me," he added, a darkness sneaking into his jovial tone.

"Aw, don't say that! You'd be a great father."

Jackson couldn't block images of holding a gun out of his mind. All he could see was the target. The gun was like an extension of his arm. It had no weight, no danger, no value, no control. The gun went off in an explosion of sound and force.

"What?" he asked, pulling himself back into the moment.

"I said you'd be a great father. You're already looking out for naïve women and babies like a father. You definitely have the protective instinct."

"Yeah, I do," Jackson truthfully admitted. "And it has gotten me in trouble every single time I've used it."

* * *

Missouri turned into Nebraska, and Nebraska was soon to turn into Wyoming. Jackson had taken about a dozen rides of various lengths. His nights were spent in the woods, usually in campgrounds—closed or open, scout or public. If the grounds were occupied and guarded, Jackson stayed in the wooded areas and came out to wash up in the pond or lake after everyone had called it a night. If he was in a closed scout camp, he took in the luxury of a dusty, moldy bunk bed in a small cabin. He couldn't use a hotel or even a slum no-tell-motel until his picture stopped flashing across television screens and newspapers.

In Wyoming, he finally took a chance and boarded a bus. There were only five other people on the bus, including two men by themselves and a husband and wife with their seven-year-old daughter. The girl kept staring at him and he was positive that she had made him, but surely it wasn't possible for a child so young to be so adept at picking criminals out of a lineup, so to speak. Jackson kept his sunglasses on, despite the overcast sky, and he leaned back against the corner where the seat met the window. His eyes were nearly shut, but open just enough to watch the little girl with raven hair and tan skin stare at him as if he was—what was the name he had heard?—Justin Bayber, Beebar, or something like that. Keeping up with the latest teen heartthrob was not high on his "To Do" list, but his job required that it be on his list anyway. Even if it hurt him.

Jackson casually readjusted himself in his spot, tilting his head just enough to let his hair fall over his cheek to shield his features just a little more. He should have known this was a bad idea. Samuel had told him how connected the world was now, that kindergartners had cell phones and that little old ladies blogged. He would be damned if a seven-year-old would be the one to take him down. It was embarrassing enough to think about the eleven-year-old who had tripped him on the plane. Damn kids.

Around twenty minutes later, the bus came to a stop at a gas station in the middle of a barren expanse of land that was marred only by the mountainous terrain and hills at the horizon. The overcast skies had given way to rain, and Jackson exited the bus into a freshly-formed mud pit. As the bus drove away, the little girl watched him through the window, and mutely raised a small hand to him as a wave. He repeated the gesture, still insecure regarding what was going through her mind and how that would impact him. Jackson took off his sunglasses and put them into his bag before turning and walking down the same road.

* * *

Upon leaving Wyoming, Jackson meandered his way across the uneven border of Idaho and Montana. He was now in Washington state, just shy of the Canadian border. He had gone a little out of his way to find a closed religious retreat campground, but in the end, it had been worth it. The grounds were wide and spacious in the absolute middle of nowhere.

His back was propped up against a large oak and he held an open newspaper against his raised knees. Several other newspapers lay closed next to him. The fresh smell of the pond water and the green grass was potent and intoxicating. He was taking the day off. No walking. No hitching rides. No meeting strategically selected citizens. No planning. He was going to rest and catch up on the news.

Jackson's story had slipped from the front page of the local paper to a small blurb in the back under "national headlines." The nation-wide _USA Today_, however, had him at the end of the first section, but it was still a sizable article. The article basically said that police had lost him somewhere back in Missouri. As planned, several of those who offered him rides went to the authorities, but they surprisingly had nothing but good things to say about him. Al said that Jackson was going to "pay back an ex-girlfriend," but he was nothing but polite and nice to him. The next sentence confirmed that Miami police and the FBI had Lisa under their protection. The young mother, whose name was Alison Denmore, said he was "sweet and considerate" and she said he did not reveal anything about where he was heading. Jackson clearly remembered telling her where he was going and she apparently chose to be loyal to him even after learning he was a fugitive. The generous comments stated by those who aided him made it obvious to Jackson that unless he chased them down with a knife in their own homes, they obviously wouldn't hold a grudge against him.

The mystery of the seven-year-old in Wyoming was solved. The girl's parents recognized Jackson and they were exchanging frightened whispers over the child's head the entire time. They could have been professionals as far as Jackson was concerned. He never saw them flinch, much less look at one another (or him) while conversing. They reported him to the authorities, but no one else could confirm against various photos that the man they saw was in fact Jackson. The little girl told police that he "looked like the real Captain Jack," which the reporter interpreted as Johnny Depp. Jackson snorted in amusement. He looked nothing like the actor, but his disguise created by his hairstyle, choice in clothing, and his body language made him appear different than he physically looked. It was the epitome of "I think, therefore I am."

He huffed in disappointment at his lack of success in turning his eyewitnesses into quality minions. He folded the newspaper and tossed it aside with the others. He stood slowly, bones popping and muscles aching. Any logical minded person would think the escaping and evading was the easy part when compared to sneaking out of the country, but he knew better than that. The details were always the hardest part to any assignment.

Jackson tugged his t-shirt over his head, revealing skin that, not unlike his face, was more tanned than his usual pale pallor, but was still considered light by many people's standards. Dozens of scars marred his once immaculate body. They came in every possible variety, including jagged, raised, discolored, and so on. They were ugly and they were obvious. Jackson glared down, reacting each time he saw them as if he had noticed them for the first time. In prison, they went ignored because he didn't have chance for physical self-examination, and on the few occasions when he did have the opportunity, it was usually spent looking at his newest acquisition in his injury collection. Jackson slid off his pants. His legs were not as scarred, but there were quite a few prizes that brought back fond memories of pain and agony at the hands of strangers.

Clothes in hand, Jackson carefully walked into the pond and began cleaning himself up for the final part of stage one.

* * *

As he lay curled up on his side, his bag serving as his pillow, Jackson let his thoughts stray. He had been extremely task-oriented over the course of the last few weeks, and memories of Lisa and Samuel had been few and fleeting in his mind. Now, in silence with only himself as company, he couldn't fight off the overwhelming rush of memories in his mind. The crickets were chirping in an irritatingly loud harmony as the sun completely disappeared and the almost full moon provided a more than adequate night light.

_Jackson had just been called away from his run to meet with Samuel, his visitor. _

_Jackson and Samuel silently regarded one another, each resolute and inhumanly impassive. It was almost as if a film had been paused mid-scene, freezing the characters in one second of time and stretching it out to last for infinity. "A man doesn't run like that," Samuel softly whispered, as if confiding a secret to a close confidant. "What were you running from? Or to?" he added accusingly. It was his opening line, a peculiar substitute for a traditional greeting. Curiosity apparently was eating away at him if it drove him straight to the core without any preliminaries._

_Jackson's hard-held face seemed to open up and perhaps soften at the allegation, but an allegation of what, he didn't know. Either way, he took it personally. This was not the first time someone had made such a comment to him and it was getting old. Everyone found his running to be far more interesting and revealing than it actually was. "Like everything I do, I was doing it for myself. I was running for me."_

_"__No you weren't," Samuel immediately answered. His forehead crinkled in contemplation. "Let's skip parts one and two and jump straight to part three." Jackson's eyes narrowed. "'And Lisa?'" Samuel quoted Jackson's own line to him, the words contemptuously ridiculing him._

_Jackson refused to pander to Samuel's lesser behavior. "Lisa," Jackson over-annunciated, "has nothing to do with this," he practically growled. Jackson had no clue why Samuel came to talk to him about Lisa, but apparently he had seen something that changed his perspective on the simple request to monitor the woman. Samuel was not the type to have moral dilemmas in his world of black and white, wrong and right, so the fact that he was even having this discussion with Jackson said something was terribly, terribly wrong._

_"__You were running like a man possessed," Samuel pressed. "You have me stalking this girl. Watching her every move. Reporting to you like you're some sick pervert." Jackson stiffened in his chair and slightly fidgeted. "She's a sweet girl. But she's damaged. You damaged her. You are still damaging her and she doesn't even know it." Samuel's voice shifted from chastising to harsh, and he was becoming harder and more authoritative by the second. "Where do you get off? Do you like knowing you fucked her up? Do you crave the need to still have power over her, to dominate her? Do you get off on knowing she's damaged goods?—"_

_"__You know nothing, nothing, you stupid son of a bitch!" Jackson screamed into the phone. His eyes had welled with tears of anger and aggression, and they were bloodshot. His face was flushed pale but reddened in fury. Veins he didn't even know he had were bulging in his face and neck. His heart pounded with the ache of a hammer, large and heavy. "You know nothing! I didn't even know she was damaged before I met her!"_

_Samuel didn't know what Lisa's previous "damage" was, as Jackson had remained very private regarding details of their encounter and bizarre relationship—if that was even the word for what he and Lisa had. But now that he was aware of that, things started to click a little more for him. He could understand why Jackson would become so infatuated with a woman like Lisa. They had more in common than either of them realized. "So you are obsessed with her because she's damaged?" Samuel asked, again calm and almost like a therapist attempting to dissect a situation._

_Jackson's jaw was set, and his breathing was heavy but controlled as he attempted to regain his self-control and neutrality. He never experienced outbursts—with one tiny little exception. This time, though, she caused his breakdown without even being near him._

_"__I'm not obsess—"_

_"__You can't rest knowing there's a chance she's over what you did—"_

_"__I hardly think of her—"_

_"__That's why you have me stalking her—"_

_"__Merely unfinished business. I didn't finish the job." Jackson was growing impatient and Samuel was becoming apprehensive. Samuel was close, so close to the truth that lurked in the dark trenches of Jackson's mind._

_"__All she was to you was a job—"_

_"__All they ever are—"_

_"__You've never snapped—"_

_"__Still haven't."_

_"__She's innocent and you can't leave her alone."_

_"__No one's innocent. No one." Samuel's interest was definitely stirred at this comment._

_"__That girl is breakable and you're obsessed with her, her vulnerability, her innocence—"_

_"__She's far from—"_

_"__She's everything you'll never be, never touch, never have—"_

_"__I don't want or need—"_

_"__Or are you obsessed with making sure she can't be saved—"_

_"__I'm not ob—"_

_"__Why are you running, Jackson?" Samuel demanded. "Are you running to her or from her?"_

_Jackson avoided a direct response. "She's nothing to me."_

_"__Nothing? She's broken! She's broken because of you!"_

_The tension that had been building from their rapid-fire exchange ultimately ignited in a split second._

_Jackson was on his feet in the blink of an eye, the force of his sudden action pushing his chair back and to the floor with a frighteningly loud thump. He gripped the phone with a hold that turned his knuckles white and made every muscle in his arm protrude. His mild manner was replaced with the screams of a madman. _

_"__Of course I know she's broken! She was already broken and I'm the only one who can ever understand her! I'm the only one who knows her! I didn't finish the job! I have to finish the job!" Jackson threw the phone into the shatter-proof glass that separated him from Samuel and then reached behind to pick up the chair. "I'm not finished with her!" He had slammed the chair into the glass two full times and was on his third swing when the guards at last subdued him. _

_Still calm and collected, Samuel was on his feet, watching with the reverence one would show at a funeral procession. His lips parted in utter shock at Jackson's usual cool reserve being replaced by the maniacal behavior of a lunatic._

_As the guards struggled to drag Jackson away and to solitary confinement for one month, he continued to kick and howl out guttural sounds mixed with mumbled phrases lost amongst the yelling. Never in his life had he experienced an instance in which he was utterly out of control. _

_It was in that moment that Samuel realized why Jackson was obsessed with Lisa, and he knew what he had to do for both of their sakes._

* * *

Jackson had been walking for hours when he came across a roadside café attached to a gas station. He had a few dollars left in his pocket from the charity of others that he had accumulated. It was enough.

Inside, the food would have normally turned his stomach—fried, greasy, no nutritional value—yet it smelled like heaven. He quickly compartmentalized that reaction and returned to the business-focused machine he normally was. The television was on a cable news network and he directed his attention to it as he slid into a booth. A waitress came up to him and didn't say anything because he was too lost in the news that was subtitled on the screen and scrolled on the ticker at the bottom of the broadcast.

Jackson's head twitched, as if startled. He instantly laughed. "Sorry. I was so into that," he said, nodding at the television.

"I'll give you the Cliff Notes: it's all bad news," she deadpanned, but her deadpan was more grim than intentional humor. If he operated on emotions, it would have sent chills down his spine. Instead, it gave him a point at which he could start working on the girl.

Jackson again turned on the laughter, calling upon "Innocent Chuckle Number 4" to woo his target into submission. "Thanks. That saves me some time."

"For better things, I hope."

Jackson closed his mouth tightly to hold back a smile, and that let his cheeks turn awkwardly red. "Maybe," he answered noncommittally.

"What can I get for you?" the waitress asked, back to business.

"Uh, whatever I can get for," Jackson squinted one eye and gazed upward with the other, his mouth pursed and jaw locked in contemplation. "…six dollars and twenty-eight cents…"

"So no steak then," she waitress quipped as she scribbled something on her pad.

"Not today," he admitted with a snicker.

"I'll see what I can do," she promised with a suggestive smile before turning sharply and sauntering away with a perkier step than before.

"Me too," he muttered under his breath as he returned his attention to the television.

* * *

Jackson set his fork down after finishing his eggs in a basket. "That was fantastic," he told the waitress, Emily, who sat in the booth across from him. Her brunette hair was pulled back from her face and clipped upward. It wasn't very long, so most of it stuck straight up against the back of her head. Her big chocolate eyes made her look innocent at first glance, but Jackson certainly saw darkness in them, a darkness that if she knew it existed, could rival his own. He would have to tread carefully with her. Then again, the last time he saw an innocent face, it turned out that innocent face was almost the last one he saw. Perhaps he would fare better with someone who already had evil in her rather than someone who didn't know how to tap into evil until he had taught her to do it in the time it took to travel from Dallas to Miami.

Emily sucked her lower lip into her mouth and bit down on it. "I get off from work in an hour," she admitted. Her fingers absently traced her wrists, touching them with delicate small finger-strokes as if they were a fragile infant puppy. It was a tell that Jackson spotted easily. She had no awareness of her action, and that told him not only was it habitual, but it was also subconscious. Something was definitely going on beneath the surface.

Jackson's steely cold blue eyes caught hers over his glass of ice water.

* * *

Her apartment was actually the town's hotel and apartment complex in one. It was on long, straight strip of about a dozen rooms per two floors. Customers could pay by the hour, day, or even month. Jackson could honestly say he had never been in one of those. As soon as she shut the door behind him, she locked it and attached the chain.

With childlike innocence that contradicted everything about her, Emily lifted Jackson's hand and put it to her still-clothed breast. She leaned in to kiss him on the mouth, but he dodged her at the last second, instead letting her access his neck. He ran his hands all over her body, touching where he should and moaning with the excitement he should have. For him, this was no different than a doctor's appointment. It was all biology and business. He thought this would have been harder for him—both literally and figuratively—after coming from prison, but this wasn't something that he craved. Sex was an instrument and Emily was a means to an end, the end being Lisa.

Jackson backed into the bed and let himself fall, pulling Emily down on top of him. She had maneuvered around his groping to remove her own shirt and the skirt was in the process of sliding off as she bounced and wriggled against Jackson's pelvis. His body reacted to her, but his mind was the one in control. He could mentally take himself where he wanted to go, shut his entire body down, or put everything on auto-pilot. His body was a weapon and his mind controlled all weapons and used them for greater purposes than avaricious self-fulfillment.

Emily started to unzip his pants when Jackson called upon his acting skills. "Emily, Emily, wait," he breathily whispered. "Emily, wait," he begged. Emily had his pants unbuttoned and unzipped, and her hand rested possessively upon the prize she sought.

Jackson sat up in the bed, genuinely flustered by his biology's baser urges and faux-emotional as part of the role he was playing. He zipped up his pants, and sniffed loudly as he ran a hand over his face and through his hair. "I'm sorry."

Emily was on hands and knees, and she stalked toward him with the calculated stealth of a predator. "It seemed everything was ready to go," she commented, and he could hear the cold evil he had seen in her eyes. What had happened to this girl? His scrutiny of her led him downward from her eyes to a scar across her stomach. It was faint, but it was there. When he stared harder, he could see matching scars of a lighter shade across her arms, chest, stomach, and legs. He was willing to bet there were worse ones on her back. In the dimly lit room, they could barely be seen. They were old, probably dating back to childhood. Emily had been beaten as a child, the weapon of choice being a whip of some kind—probably a belt, and probably her father. Jackson's plan had included seducing a girl and playing the sympathy card. He wasn't counting on an abuse victim with baggage. In a way, it was a mixed blessing. He knew the mind of abuse victims. He could target specific points in their heads, but he had to be careful not to reopen her daddy issues. The last time Jackson messed with a girl and her father, it didn't end well for him.

"I can't do this right now. I need to come clean with you." Emily slid down into a sitting position. "I'm traveling through here to get to Canada. I'm sure this is going to sound like a load of shit, but it's the truth. My mother is all I have in the world. I left her to get a college education and," Jackson laughed sourly, "that didn't turn out so well. A loser band, rehab, and several bad relationships later, I finally got over myself and called her. And she's sick." Jackson looked down, letting himself brood. "Cancer."

Emily didn't know how to react. She turned away and Jackson could see the disconnection in her face. Empathy was lost to her because she was one who never had feelings except those projected upon her. Jackson had to make contact with her or else all of this would go to hell in a hand basket. "She left _him_," he spat with disgust, "knowing we would starve and suffer, but we would be safe, and I repaid her by not staying with her. I'm such a bastard." Jackson shuffled over to sit on the edge of the bed. He averted his attention to the floor. "I'm so sorry, Emily. I like you, but I can't do this. Not now." Emily remained silent. "I'm such a bastard," he repeated. "You must hate me."

Emily slinked up behind him. He could sense her hand in midair, hesitating before touching his shoulder. "You're not a bastard. I've seen bastards and you're not one." Jackson kept his head down, not daring to startle her just as she was coming to his side of things. Emily drew her hand back from his shoulder and she sank into the bed behind him, visible only in his peripheral. He could barely make out Emily rubbing her wrists. "When are you crossing the border?"

"I should be on my way now, but I can't. I'm afraid and I just need—" Jackson stopped and searched for words. "I just needed…someone." Jackson's words would either trigger her in a father-hate rage or pull her firmly onto his train of thought.

"Would you like me to drive you?"

* * *

Getting across the border had been easy enough. Getting away from Emily had been easy enough (though Jackson believed his unannounced exit from her life would no doubt add yet another bloody tally on the mental chalkboard that was counting down until she snapped). Getting access to his Canadian bank account via free web access at the library was easy enough too. Getting on a plane to Mexico from Canada was easy enough as well, especially after he pulled his hair back into a small ponytail and put on somewhat more attractive clothes than a ratty t-shirt with jeans.

After accessing his Mexican bank account, Jackson boarded another plane, this one for New York. He still had a few things to take care of before seeing Lisa again.

* * *

Arriving in New York was uneventful. Despite a notable increase in security since the last time he had flown in 2005, he still managed to get though without significant problems. If only the TSA knew who they had let through their grasp. Jackson's hair was still rather long from when he had cut it at the truck stop. It was clean and combed back away from his face. He continued to keep stubble on his jaw to avoid the suspicion of being clean-shaven or having a thick beard. He was now dressed in a fresh, pressed pale gray suit with a collared white shirt that was unbuttoned casually at the neck thanks to the lack of a tie. A pair of silver, thin-rimmed glasses completed the look. He looked like an American with a healthy income returning from a leisurely trip.

Jackson rented a laptop from the hotel's front desk and accessed the web from the Wi-Fi in his room on the fourteenth floor. First, he took precautions on the computer. He had missed out on several operating systems and web browsers during his jail time, but it didn't take long for him to adapt and make the corrections on the computer necessary to keep his activities from being traced or recorded.

He searched for everything he could find on Lisa. She was still under guard by the FBI and that meant she was safe for now. He hoped they would stay a little while longer to give him the time he required to complete a few more minor tasks.

Next he searched for information on Samuel. The usual cyber haunts that contained coded information about people in their line of work provided no information at all, so that meant Samuel was now a memory and nothing more. No trace of him still existed. Jackson knew a few places where Samuel kept his back-up resources, so he made a mental note to check them out later.

Jackson sent a few emails and wiped the computer clean, inside and out.

* * *

**July, 2011**

Over a month had passed since Jackson's escape when he finally arrived in Miami. He wouldn't have long to monitor Lisa before making his move. If the Company even slightly suspected he was in town, it was game over for everyone. There was no room for second chances.

He began his observation at Lisa's new apartment (the one Samuel had told him about) and he followed her to work every day for a week. He learned her schedule and her habits, and it was even simpler and more predictable than before. At the Lux Atlantic, things had changed and life had gone on for everyone but Lisa. She was still in the same Managerial position with no ambition to move forward. It was sad, but revealing. Her friends and co-workers moved on to promoted positions in the company or took other jobs. They married and had families. They smiled and laughed. They relaxed and enjoyed life.

Lisa, from what he saw, was still Lisa. She worked all day, went home late after working overtime that she probably didn't need to work, and she went to sleep. Sleep wasn't even peaceful for her. He was on the street adjacent to her single-unit apartment in his recently-purchased used car, a car he had paid for in cash to the guy who sold it in his front yard. If he parked and turned his head at just the right angle, he could faintly see through the thick, layered curtains her indistinct silhouette lying in bed, not tossing and turning, but obviously awake and merely lying back against the bed's headboard.

It had been over six years. What could possibly afflict this woman to the point that she was beyond repair? If nothing else, pounding him into a pile of bleeding mush had seemed to be very therapeutic for her at the time, but according to his own eyes and what Samuel had reported, it appeared that two violent encounters in one lifetime was enough to fundamentally alter this woman. She wasn't sulking or moping, but instead she was—_different_. It was as if she had several epiphanies all at once showing her that there was no Santa Claus, puppies could die, and real fairy tales seldom to never have happy endings. She was perhaps the sole jaded adult in a world full of naïve children, children who saw the best in strange hitchhikers and even lied to protect them from the authorities. Jackson wasn't sure if he was satisfied at what he saw. He wanted to be pleased to see her crushed spirit, but at the same time, he wanted to beat her pretty little face until she willingly and eagerly came back to life.

He was pleased that the FBI had stopped watching Lisa and now the only patrol sitting outside her apartment was the local police. They would be easier to evade.

And so it began that for one week, Jackson went into deep observation mode, monitoring the situation as he would any other job. He paid attention to everything in the neighborhood, from the police schedules to how one particular jogger ran by every evening at 6:17 p.m. exactly. On the second day the jogger came by, it was a coincidence. On the third day, it was suspicious. Joggers were people and people varied. A typical jogger may reach a specific point at 6:15 one day and 6:20 the next. Exact times were clockwork and only certain types of people were able to make clockwork. On the fourth day, it was time to take action.

Lisa came home most days around 6 p.m. after working a twelve-hour day. That would leave Jackson a 15 minute window to make contact with Lisa and convince her that she would have to take his evil word as truth for once and—and what? Go with him? Merely confess what she knew? He was astonished that after six years of incarceration and over a month on the run, the woman who plagued his mind was now the subject of a brand new problem: what should he do about Lisa? Lisa knew something about the Company and that was a danger for both of them. He had to figure it out quickly because one thing was written in stone: going in to face Lisa with a plan would mean she would easily destroy his plan and make him improvise on the spot just like last time. Instead, he needed an idea, a goal to work toward. As of yet, the best he had was "find Lisa" and he had already accomplished that step.

Around 5:30 p.m., Jackson drove to the back of the block Lisa lived on and parked his car in the driveway of another apartment. Wearing transparent rubber gloves that would go unnoticed from a distance, he got out of the car and looked like he belonged as he casually checked the mailbox before entering an apartment with a quick pick of the lock. Any vigilant or nosy neighbor would see an inconspicuous man dressed in casual black slacks, a white button-up shirt, and a black sport coat walking on his newly-rented property after getting off from a hard day at work. He immediately locked the front door as it was before and went straight through the living room to the backdoor. He exited the apartment and climbed the chain-link fence separating the unit from Lisa's. When he was on Lisa's side of the fence, he picked the lock with the coolness of a veteran criminal and entered the apartment. He removed his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket as he searched for a place to await her arrival.

* * *

At 5:58 p.m., Jackson heard the click of the front door unlocking. Lisa didn't turn on the lights. She never turned on the lights anymore, he had learned in his observations. In shadows, he could see her hair was bright auburn. The logic center of his brain was believed it was still the same as it was last time, but something in the back of his mind argued in a small suppressed voice that it seemed brighter somehow, as if he were Dorothy seeing color in life for the first time after entering Oz. It was styled in a severe knot at the nape of her pale neck, and her once healthy full face was tauter than it had been before. Shadows made her seem hard and harsh in the face, and her black pantsuit made her seem more straight-lined and pencil-shaped than he recalled. She held her body with a tight, formal posture despite being in the privacy of her own home. She was a peculiar and unfamiliar silhouette to him, a person he was positive he had met before but was now in no way recognizable to him. That would make it easier for him to separate business from that _other _matter he felt toward the woman who had wrecked his life. This person before him was a stranger and he could detach from a stranger. Maybe this wouldn't be so complicated after all. Then again, that was what he had thought last time and that didn't turn out quite as he had expected.

She fully entered the apartment, locked and bolted the door, dropped her bag in the tan upholstered chair closest to the door, and headed in the direction of the kitchen. Jackson wasn't about to let her get that far.

He stepped out from his hiding spot in the hallway that lead from the kitchen to the bedroom and intercepted her by firmly wrapping his arms around her and clamping a hot hand over her mouth. She immediately screamed in terror, the sound muffled to a shrill vocalization of her throat. Jackson wasn't in the mood to play games with the woman who helped ruin his life, so he got right to the point. "Shh, Leese. I'm not here to hurt you. We have business—"

Before he could whisper another word in her ear, Lisa slammed her head back into his, disorienting him long enough to break free from his arms and jam her elbow into his throat. Her hair fell loose now and into her face. It was much longer than it had been before and its usual soft curl was replaced with the crinkles imposed upon it by wearing it in a bun all day. Despite his discomfort, Jackson's mind registered irony and déjà vu before anything else. He hunched over a little in reaction to Lisa elbowing him and his lower posture gave her the perfect angle to plant a swift kick in his middle. In automatic response, he wheeled back into an upright position, but he ignored the pain and instead reached out to intercept Lisa's incoming fist. He caught the punch a split second before it would have impacted with his face. Lisa was stunned as Jackson squeezed her balled up fist in his hand, his strength evident and this time clearly dominant. Her eyes grew wide at the realization that Jackson was at the physical advantage over her this time. The Jackson she had known had not been terribly strong or a fighter.

"You're not the only one with nifty new skills," he shared before jerking her arm behind her, forcing Lisa to turn her back to him as he reeled her against him. "I'm not here for this," he insisted, again opting to whisper almost intimately in her ear. He resisted the urge to lose his composure at such a close proximity to the woman who was the closest to a mythological Fury as anything he had ever seen. After six years in prison, even the woman responsible for him being in there was almost enough to remind him of his basic male sexuality, but he turned off his body, his desires, and his needs just as he always had. He had business to settle. She attempted to backward head-butt him again, but he dodged it. "None of that, please. I'm here to save you. Ironic, don't you think?" he couldn't help remarking with an ephemeral smile.

"Bullshit!" she yelled with a grunt. In an instant, Jackson was being flipped over her shoulder and onto the floor, a classic self-defense move that was taught in Defense 101, and he had foolishly walked right into it. It was remarkable to him how the abilities he had acquired in prison were useless when he saw Lisa again. That woman did nothing but destroy everything about him: his mind, his skills, his assignment, his common sense, his world. One day, she would pay for it.

"Enough!" Jackson barked. He jumped back to his feet and when Lisa tried to kick him again, he deflected her leg with his outstretched arm. In a lightning fast motion, she spun and attempted to kick from the other direction, and he again repelled it with his other arm. She darted at him to punch him, but he ducked and instead charged at her, tackling her to the ground. They wrestled briefly as she attempted to bite, kick, and scratch him, but he grabbed her wrists, pinning them down above her head. Her legs powerfully flailed, hoping to knee him in the groin, but he made his own legs become dead weight over hers.

"There are people watching you right now—"

"To protect me from you!"

"—and they work for my Company—"

"They're cops and FBI—"

"You know something—they want you dead for it. Six years—" Lisa began to squirm again with rising anger and Jackson held her down tighter. He was about to continue speaking when he looked deeply into her eyes for the first time since seeing her again and they were flooded with tears of terror and panic. He resumed speaking, hoping to sound harmless enough to let her know he was there on business and this time the business was in her favor. "It's been six years and they've _just now_ decided you're important enough to kill. That says something. Now I need you to tell me: what do you know?"

Lisa laughed coldly and when she did, a stray tear escaped from her right eye. "Like I'll tell you. Just kill me now and get it over with. Because if I get loose, I'm going to kill _you_." Lisa's eyes changed from terror and panic to something savage, something scary. It was a Lisa that Jackson had never seen before, one that he had seen hints of during their fight in the house last time, but he never imagined it would take over her as it did.

"We have a matter of minutes before the Company storms this house and kills us both." Lisa seemed genuinely shocked by this and stopped struggling. She didn't believe him, but he had at least caught her attention. She must have thought something seemed unusual to begin with or else he wouldn't have captured her interest at this point. "They want me because I screwed the pooch on this one, but why they want you after all this time, only you can tell me that." Jackson hesitated, unconfident in his actions. His mind and his gut were having a debate, and before it was resolved, his mouth blurted out a vow: "Tell me and I'll protect you."

Lisa didn't miss a beat. "No, no you won't!" With all her might, Lisa shoved Jackson back and knocked her fist into his face. If she was going to go about it this way, then he certainly wasn't going to make it easy on her. Jackson fought back for once, this time striking his fist into her cheek just as she had decked him. He ran up to her and put her into a chokehold. It was tight enough to slightly cut off her air, but it wasn't enough to make her gag and gasp just yet.

"You'd be dead already if I wanted to kill you. How many times do I have to tell you: I'm not a killer. I'm a Manager. And right now, I'm an unemployed Manager trying to figure out why my old bosses want me and my former assignment dead!" Lisa back-rammed her foot into his shin. He hissed faintly, but he didn't let go. Instead, his hold constricted as he wrapped one of his legs around hers to keep her from kicking again. He clutched her hair and yanked her head back to prevent her from biting his arm. "Now, I'll ask you again: what the hell do you know?"

Both were taken by surprise when the door burst open and there stood the two "cops" and the jogger. Lisa lunged forward out of Jackson's grip and when she turned to her saviors, she realized that she and Jackson both had red lasers from three guns targeting them.

* * *

**TBC…**


	4. Ch 3: The Death of a Soul

**Chapter 3: The Death of a Soul**

* * *

**August, 2005**

Lisa stepped out of the black government-issue SUV and slowly walked through the assembly of police, Homeland Security, and various other federal agents that were surrounding her father's house. The agent who had escorted her to the Lux Atlantic to make sure everything was alright silently remained behind her in his crisp black suit and she was certain that the eagle eyes concealed by his Men in Black glasses were watching her for even the slightest hint of guilt or intentional involvement in this whole ordeal. Lisa tucked her shoulder length auburn hair behind her ears as she squeezed through the crime scene experts who were canvassing every room in her father's house. What they expected to find was beyond her comprehension since it seemed that this was a pretty clear-cut case.

She couldn't help looking down at the spot where Jackson Rippner had bled on the floor until a little over an hour ago when the ambulance had collected his wheezing, limp body like a broken toy. A dark spark of sick pleasure at the thought glimmered in her eyes before she flushed the emotion away. It was a twisted response and she was disappointed at having it. Something like that would have never entered her heart and soul before meeting Jackson Rippner. It was yet another thing in her life that he had tainted with his corrupted spirit.

"Leese, sweetie," her dad softly called from the living room. She spotted him standing at the threshold between the rooms, his arm outstretched in summoning. She obediently approached her caller and he put his arm around her to guide her into the room.

"This agent needs to take your statement for the FBI," her father, Joe, explained patiently. Lisa watched as her father and the agent eyed each other, wordlessly communicating. Her father was very protective of her and it was probably disconcerting for him to let her out of his sight now after everything that had happened in his own home.

The agent had graying dark hair that was combed back from his face and he donned a mundane brownish gray suit with dignity despite its mediocrity. "Could we talk somewhere more private?" the agent directed toward her father, completely ignoring Lisa.

Joe was thinking over places they could go, a space in the house that didn't have a ton of people bustling about, but Lisa answered before he could. "My old room upstairs should be empty right now." She looked to her father for confirmation. "They haven't made it upstairs yet, have they?" Joe shook his head and Lisa escorted the agent up the stairs, her pace unhurried and non-threatening. All of the cells in her body were supercharged on adrenaline and it took every ounce of control she had not to appear like a hysterical, rage-filled lunatic on a fighting spree. Keefe had assured her at the hotel that everything would be fine and she was not going to face charges, but there was still a doubt in the back of her mind that was strong-arming all sense of logic.

When Lisa entered her room and encountered the pink and frilly bed of an innocent girl long ago lost to the world, her face reddened. She should have been a little embarrassed, but instead she was filled with a surge of anger and hostility. The lacey and fluffy bedding mocked her with its cuteness and purity. She sat down on the pink monstrosity and the agent casually borrowed the wooden chair away from her desk to sit across from her at a non-intimidating distance.

The agent smiled politely but insincerely. He seemed to want to set her at ease, but he had no idea how to do it. Awkward small talk avoided, he cut to the chase. "Did Jackson Rippner say anything to you about his intentions?" Lisa squinted her eyes and tilted her head. "That is to say, did Rippner communicate to you why he wanted Mr. Keefe killed?"

Lisa shook her head. "No." She hesitated a moment and the agent stiffened as he read her every nuance. "Don't you want to know about what happened in the house?"

The agent looked down at his notepad in hand and shook his head. "No, that's a local thing for Miami PD. I care more about Jackson Rippner. Did Rippner say anything about who his employers were? Their motivations?"

"No."

"Did he explain how the assassination would take place?"

Lisa vividly remembered Jackson proudly explaining how the business cycle of his organization worked. They received a job. They arranged the job. The job happened. Everyone (or more or less everyone) lived happily ever after. Jackson hadn't gone into great specificity, but he had openly provided enough that Lisa could piece it together. Perhaps he was more accustomed to dealing with people who lost their minds in the face of fear and he figured she wouldn't understand what was happening, but she had understood.

"Not in detail," she honestly replied. The agent may have had a poker face, but he was clearly evaluating her below the surface. Lisa nervously turned her head. Her eyes started to water and she briskly ran a hand over her windbreaker covered arm as her body once more displayed symptoms of being in shock.

"Did he suggest that he was less than focused on his assignment?"

Lisa's head jerked around to face him bravely. "What kind of question is that?" She wasn't sure why an alarm went off in her head, but it was loud and accompanied with a blinking red light.

The agent didn't falter. "Rippner is a famous middleman. We've been tracking him for years and his patterns never vary. He's cold and clean. We never see any collateral damage at his jobs." The agent smirked and sighed. "Until now," he added accusingly. Shame washed over her and she was almost flattered in that same perverted way that kept sneaking into her worldview all day. "So, was Rippner on task or was he otherwise distracted?"

Lisa chuckled dryly. "He was definitely on the job and then some. He wouldn't stop or back off."

The agent was about to speak, but paused as he considered his words. "The job…or you?"

Lisa's eyes again narrowed at him, her lips slightly parted in offense at his brazen accusation. "Jackson Rippner was completely obsessed with being a 'Manager,' she insisted, providing finger quotation marks in the air. "I was merely an obstacle."

"He usually overcomes obstacles rather than following them home to play a round of chase."

"That's what this was?"

"Wasn't it?"

"Stop blaming me for your guy getting away all this time. You have him now, thanks to me."

"It's because of you that Mr. Keefe was _almost _killed."

"But he wasn't."

"Did he live because Rippner was distracted by you or because Rippner wanted him to live?"

"Neither."

"It has to be one…"

Lisa huffed. "I don't appreciate your thinly veiled attempts at—"

The agent sat up straighter. "This is not a 'thinly veiled attempt' at anything. I need to know: was Jackson Rippner more focused on you or on completing his assignment?"

"I don't see how that's relev—"

"I need to know his patterns—"

"There is no more 'pattern' because he's—"

"I need an answer Ms. Reisert…"

"I don't know how you expect me to know how his mind works—"

"Just answer the question, Lisa. Was this about the job or _you_?"

"_Me_! He wanted to _kill_ _me_!" Lisa finally yelled. A wave of dizziness washed over her and she realized that she had forgotten to breathe. She quickly composed herself by taking a few deep breaths before continuing. "Jackson didn't seem to care about Keefe alone being killed. In fact, when I put him on the spot, he seemed to be struggling—_a little_—with killing a man _and_ his entire family." Lisa's stomach churned at the memory of Jackson swallowing hard and saying that his customers wanted to send a message and that was their business, not his. "But he was committed to the job 110%. He was so committed that when I screwed up his precious job, he couldn't accept failure. He wouldn't let it go. He wanted me to pay for what I did to him." The agent looked puzzled to say the least.

"Did Rippner indicate that it was a personal vendetta? Did he say as much or is it your interpretation?"

Lisa gaped slack-jawed at the agent. "He followed me to my Father's house. I think it's safe to say it was personal."

"Did he say anything to you on a personal level?"

Lisa looked away before answering a clipped, "No." The agent didn't bother writing anything down this time.

"How did Rippner 'try to kill you?'"

"A knife."

"Did he inflict physical injury on you?"

Lisa thought it over. "On the plane, he head-butted me, slammed me against a wall, and I think that's it. I can't remember. Here, he shoved me down the stairs…" Lisa was thinking as hard as she could, but her mind was drawing a blank. Every single time she pictured, felt, and emotionally re-experienced something Jackson did to her, the words that described it would sound lame and childish. "He grabbed me. Chased me with a knife." Lisa shrugged. "It sounds like nothing, but these bruises aren't 'nothing,'" she said, holding out her arms even though they were still covered by the lightweight jacket she wore.

The agent didn't bother asking to see the bruises. He didn't need to see them to know the worst one was in Lisa's mind. "When he chased you with the knife, did he ever cut you?"

Lisa tried to replay everything yet again. "No, not that I recall."

"How did he hold it?" Lisa held her arm up in the air, demonstrating the downward _Psycho_ style Jackson used to hold the knife. "Never like this?" the agent asked, holding the imaginary knife (which was actually his ink pen) sideways with the blade (the tip of the pen) protruding between his thumb and index finger. Lisa shook her head. "What about straight on?" he asked, slightly altering his hand's position to demonstrate stabbing someone forward and upward. Lisa again shook her head.

"Why does it matter how he held the knife?" she inquired.

"Just curious," the agent muttered. He jotted a few notes in his book. "Were your injuries severe?"

"No." Lisa started to feel like she was the guilty party, that her words were lies that the agent was looking to disprove. Something about the agent's interrogation of her made her want to change her story if for no other reason than to redeem the value of her testimony as truth.

"For a man who tried to kill you, he obviously didn't try too hard."

Lisa narrowed her eyes for what seemed like the billionth time and bit down on her lip. When the agent said nothing else, she spoke. "That's not a question." There was a manipulative gleam in the agent's eyes and that was when Lisa realized he had non-verbally asked a question. _For a man who tried to kill you, he obviously didn't try too hard. Why is that? _Lisa refused to take the bait and answer what he wasn't willing to ask aloud. They opted to instead exchange hard looks that dared the other to cross the line they had been dancing dangerously close to the entire conversation thus far.

"Fair enough," he acknowledged with a tolerant, courteous smile. "Just a few more actual questions," he promised. "Did Jackson Rippner ever tell you about his employers?"

He had already asked that question. "Nothing," she automatically replied. "No, never," she rephrased for accuracy.

"Did he tell you anything about himself, his background, his occupation? Anything personal?"

"No." Lisa didn't think it was necessary to share that Jackson had stalked her for eight weeks prior to the flight. That might have brought extra attention to her rather than him.

The agent wrote a few things down and it was longer than a simple "nothing personal" response.

"Did Rippner attempt to make an emotional connection with you?"

Lisa was startled by the question. "What do you mean?"

"I think you know what 'emotional' means, Ms. Reisert."

Lisa carefully replied, "He attempted to pick me up in line at the airport and later over drinks."

"But other than appealing to you as a potential companion—"

"There was no emotional connection."

"I see." He jotted down a few things and while writing, asked his follow-up question: "Then why are you defending him?"

Lisa was stunned. "Excuse me?"

"The most obvious connection you have with him is you think of him as 'Jackson' when most people in your situation would stick with the pronoun 'he' or some other colorful description." Lisa flushed when she realized that she had indeed referred to him as "Jackson," which was extremely odd given that she had never called him by his name before. "You referenced him as being a 'Manager,' which is a rather specific title, I think. You said he didn't want to kill Keefe and his family when you can't possibly know that without an emotional connection. You said he was obsessed with his job and customer service when a normal person would simply reply that the bastard was as crazy as a fruitcake. You've been explaining him to me this entire interview—his personality, his obsession, his mindset—after you started with the disclaimer of, and I quote, 'I don't know how you expect me to know how his mind works.' Ms. Reisert, have you heard of something called 'Stockholm—"

"I sure as hell do _not _have Stockholm Syndrome! If I did, he and I would have been off on a romantic road trip to kill Keefe, followed up with a Starbucks date. I'm telling you the truth as I know it. I can't help how you interpret it."

The agent scribbled yet again and Lisa cringed at her own inadvertent mentioning of the Starbucks stop that Jackson had "offered" her at the end of the flight. She had no idea where that had come from, but it was there somehow, embedded in her, and it had slipped out without her control. It was a detail so accurate that mere sarcasm and exaggeration would not be able to justify or rationalize it. Or perhaps the agent did think it was sarcasm and exaggeration, and maybe it was Lisa who was more keenly attuned to it because it was true. She couldn't stop second-guessing herself now, over-analyzing every single thing she said. She wasn't sure if thinking about Jackson was unnerving her or if the agent was the one doing it.

"Anything else you think I should know?" the agent asked as he held his notebook with both hands, ready to shut it and move on.

"Nothing. Am I done?" Lisa asked awkwardly, not sure how to phrase what she was asking.

"You're good to go. Thanks for your time," he graciously said as he replaced the chair at her desk and headed out.

"Wait, I didn't get your name…"

The agent stopped in the doorway. "Samuel West," he replied with a small smile before leaving.

* * *

For some reason, the media, especially the paparazzi, found Lisa to be a fascinating subject. They had been hot on her trail since the incident. After the Red Eye flight, Lisa had spent all morning and afternoon at her father's house dealing with the authorities, but that evening, against the wishes of her father and Keefe, she returned to her second floor corner apartment at the end of the block. It was then that she comprehended how exposed the place actually was, with not one, but two sides accessible by the streets and at least four rooms visible. That night, Lisa closed the curtains, added sheets on top of the curtains to lessen the distinguishability, and sat by herself on the floor with her back to her bed and her knees drawn under her chin. She wasn't crying or bemoaning her trauma; instead, Lisa was reflecting. The events of the entire previous 24 hours replayed in her head at random segments and with varying emotional reactions.

The next morning, she had gotten ready for work an hour earlier and opened her door to find everyone from CNN to TMZ waiting for her. And it had been that way every day since then. Keefe had offered her a personal security detail to help her both with Jackson's people and the media, but she had felt no threat from anyone connected to Jackson and the media was something she could handle by ignoring them. Keefe insisted on at least a few security guards to keep the media at bay and a 500-feet-distance restraining order at the requirement of Homeland Security was placed into effect. In addition, the FBI maintained a watch over Lisa's residence all day and night, and a separate set of agents monitored her at the hotel.

The paparazzi treated her like a Reality TV star. They wrote about her experience from every angle imaginable. Eventually it got to the point where the national news became disinterested, but the paparazzi maintained their diligent work ethic. No one really cared one way or another about Lisa and she was as sick of hearing about herself as others were, but she was powerless against it.

* * *

**October, 2005**

"Lisa? Did you hear me? He got thirty years!" Cynthia repeated, a dry laugh of unintentionally sadistic enthusiasm sneaking into her words. Cynthia didn't wait for a reply. She spun swiftly and scurried back to the lobby to watch the coverage of the trial.

With Jackson Rippner out of her life for the next thirty years, without having to see his face, hear his voice, or think about his ways, her life was empty. There was no one to fear. No one to hate. No one to be her enemy. No one to be her target. No one to help her world, a world violated by rape and assault, make sense, even if it was a vile type of sense. Rippner was a horrible person, a despicable excuse for a man, but he gave her a way to vent her anger and frustration. He made her feel, even if those feelings were rage and hatred. For the next thirty years, she would be alone with only the cold hollow spot in her heart to keep her company.

Lisa retrieved the phone book from under the counter. She flipped through the yellow pages for a moment before stopping on a page and letting her eyes roam it. She took out her cell and started to dial.

"Let's hope it's a long thirty years," she muttered to herself as she waited for someone to pick up her call.

* * *

Several small groups were practicing their skills and Lisa's eyes scanned through the groups looking for someone of authority, but he found her first.

"It really is you," a deep but soft-spoken voice behind her said with a hint of excitement. Lisa turned around to fully face the man. He was probably just under six feet tall and he was a solid mass of muscle, particularly his arms. His t-shirt was oversized to allow for maneuverability and Lisa found herself fascinated by his outward expression of humility. Most men with physiques as impressive as his would have been cocky enough to show it off with tight fitting clothes. His lightly tanned skin and short natural dark blond hair were just as unassuming and laidback as the rest of his appearance, and his gray eyes sparkled with childlike interest in Lisa despite being her senior by at least five years.

"I called earlier," Lisa reminded him. "I assume I spoke with you—"

He nodded hastily. "Yeah, it was me. I just thought it was, you know, a prank call or something. I didn't actually expect Lisa Reisert—_the_ _Lisa Reisert—_to call me today of all days, ya know?" he explained. He was a fast speaker and his body language was as matter of fact as his words. It was no secret that Lisa's story had been plastered all over the news for the last week more so than before, but on this particular day, it was even more present due to the verdict being announced.

"You're Mr. Ryan?"

Joshua Ryan offered his hand. "Josh," he insisted.

Lisa firmly shook his hand. "Lisa Reisert," she introduced herself despite him already "knowing" her.

"You really want to learn defense?" Josh asked incredulously. "From what I've heard in the news, I could probably learn defense from _you_."

Lisa shrugged and glanced away, letting her eyes wonder over the groups practicing flips, hits, and kicks. She saw people young and old, slim and heavy, dark and light, rich and poor, all united in one room and she knew why. Crime knew no boundaries. Tragedy could touch anyone no matter who they were or where they were. There was no such thing as safety or entitlement. Everyone was a victim and if they hadn't been one yet, they were merely standing in line waiting for it to find them. Each person in the facility apparently had the same idea as Lisa: they weren't going down without a fight.

"I've always been an athlete," Lisa began, her arms crossed. Her eyes were downcast in avoidance. "And between that and the adrenaline, I got lucky."

Lisa had thought about it several times since August, but every single time it entered her mind, she forced it out. The notion that her athleticism and adrenaline had not been combined with luck, that they had instead been combined with Jackson not actually wanting to hurt her, made her ill. Her brain seemed to be playing tricks on her after her interview with Agent West and that supported her secret desire to merely forget everything. Repression and denial always received a bad reputation, but she had a feeling that they could become her best friends if she wanted them as such.

"And you don't want to rely on 'luck' again," Josh supplied for her, nodding in understanding. Lisa joined him with a curt nod. "Neither does anyone in this gym," he said, walking past her. She fell in line after him. Lisa remained quiet as he gave her the welcome/motivational speech, but she stopped listening when he said, "Most of the people here have been affected by crime, but they aren't going to ever let that happen to them again." Lisa slowed to a stop.

"That's what I said," she muttered under her breath.

* * *

**December, 2005**

Lisa was practicing the fine art of avoidance. She continued to hit and kick the hard foam mannequin with all her might. She stopped a moment, stretched her neck from side to side, and resumed. Sweat fell into her eyes and burned, but she didn't care. The threads from where she had cut off the sleeves from her dark blue t-shirt dangled against her wet arms and irritated her, but she ignored them.

"Lisa, I'm closing up," a male voice called from across the small training room. Lisa punched harder and more frequently, and the persistent thumping against the bag helped block out his voice.

She felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. She wheeled around in an attempt to elbow Josh in the face. He effortlessly put his right hand up, caught her elbow, and twisted her arm behind her.

"That's sloppy. You should be embarrassed."

Lisa pouted and jerked her arm out of his grip. "That's because you won't teach me how to do anything else," she justified.

Josh backed up and let Lisa have her moment. When she took spells like this, he usually exercised passiveness until she cooled off. Lisa had attended self-defense classes three times a week since October, and it was only a four-week course. He wasn't about to kick her out, but he definitely wasn't a fan of her continued presence—not because of Lisa herself, but because it wasn't healthy. Lisa had become determined that he was going to teach her harder fighting skills, more aggressive confrontational techniques, offensive moves that would be dangerous in the wrong hands. Josh was no expert at how the mind operated after a traumatic experience, but he was pretty sure Lisa was not ready for anything of that sort. He just wasn't brave enough to tell her directly.

"Lisa, it's two days till Christmas," Josh began as he came up behind the mannequin and wrapped his arms over it to prop up and face her. "You should be with your family."

Lisa shifted her weight from one foot to the other repeatedly and she pushed her hair out of her face. "I'm paying you to be here."

"This is a private business. My contract says I can deny any customer, returning or potential, on any grounds that I choose and anyone who signs it—you included—agree to those terms. No judge in the world would side against me for it, especially here, Leese," he said in his usual calm, soft voice.

"Don't call me that," she snapped. "I go by Lisa," she sternly insisted, her hands coming to rest on her hips. She still shifted her weight from side to side nervously as she awaited her next "fix" of physical violence to occupy her mind and emotions.

Josh stood up straight. "I'm sorry. Lisa," he began again with a sigh, "I'm worried about you. I don't know what you're normally like, but I'm seeing in you a lot of what I see in people who…have been through a lot and…people who need help."

Lisa laughed wryly. "You're telling me that I need therapy?" All humor, dry or genuine, was gone when she continued. "You don't even know me."

"No, I don't, but do you know you? I mean, you've been through an ordeal, a very public ordeal, and I think you need time to readjust to life again. It's a lot like what soldiers go through when they come home. They have that battlefield mindset, their emotions are out of whack, and they can't settle into the real world again."

Lisa had immaturely looked away at the start of the accusations and she continued to do so. She reached up and roughly wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She wasn't sure if it was sweat or a runny nose from unshed tears that weren't even in her eyes but may have been in her heart.

Josh didn't say anything, nor did Lisa, so he picked up the mannequin and carried it to the wall with the rest of the portable equipment so the clean-up crew could do their jobs with a little more convenience. He returned to stand in front of Lisa and she still avoided him.

"I'm only saying this because I care about you. You've been here every moment you aren't at work and you're stretching out a four-week class in the hope that I'll take it up a notch. Lisa, I'm not about to teach you how to fight when you aren't in the right mindset." That caught Lisa's attention and she stared daggers at him. "I was a screwed up kid. When I learned to fight, it was because I was looking for something to discipline me and keep me focused. I didn't want it to take out assholes from the streets or in other gangs." Lisa didn't miss the fact that Josh had said "other gangs." For the first time, she became aware of the fact that she hardly knew him. He had attempted to talk to her for three months and she still didn't know his story. "I needed fighting to protect myself, but more than that, I needed it to fill a hole in my heart. I had nothing I could give and I never got anything in return. But in my fighting, I found a version of me that I never knew existed. Fighting is a skill that is part of me, but you want it as a weapon. I can't let you handle a weapon like that." Josh uncomfortably ran a hand through his hair. "I'll teach you to fight, Lisa, but not until you're ready for it."

A few uneasy moments passed between them. The large empty training room seemed more ominous with most of the lights off and nothing but the darkness and few street lights from the outside world coming in through the large windows. "How will you know when I'm ready?" she asked, her low voice trembling and cracking.

"I'll know when _you _know," he vaguely assured her. "Goodnight, Lisa. Merry Christmas."

Josh stood still and Lisa received his unspoken command to leave. She wordlessly turned her back to him and left the building.

* * *

**February, 2006**

"What do you think he meant when he said he wouldn't let you handle a weapon like that?" her therapist inquired with the stereotypical monotone one would expect of a woman in her line of work. Laird was blank in the face, always reliably expressionless. Her black hair was cut at chin length and was smoothly tucked under enough to barely touch the dark skin of her jawline.

Lisa sat rigidly in the floral-pattern upholstered chair, her elbows planted on the arms and her hands laced together in the air in front of her. "He thinks I'm angry. Out of control. He doesn't trust me."

Lisa had finally and reluctantly taken up Keefe on his offer of free therapy. At first, she was positive that Keefe and the government wanted to use the sessions to interrogate her for information on Jackson, but after Dr. Laird repeatedly assured her everything was confidential, Lisa became a little more open to the process. Before the first few sessions, Lisa had, in a moment of paranoid insanity, searched the room for audio/video surveillance equipment just in case, but there was none.

After attending sessions twice a week for two months, she was finally being honest enough to actually make progress. Therapy was hard for someone like Lisa. She was a by the book type. When there was a problem, it was solved quickly and efficiently. She was not a believer in gray area and yet therapy seemed to involve the avoidance of black and white in favor of nothing but gray. It was difficult for her to shift into this mindset that things had to be discovered, admitted, and accepted when her habit, her instinct was to see and solve.

"You're doing it again," Laird noted, and as expected, the voice of the middle-aged doctor never wavered beyond the balanced sound one would expect of a machine. "You actually admitted it this time. 'He doesn't trust me.' This all seems to boil down to trust issues. Did Jackson Rippner earn your trust, Lisa?"

Lisa rolled her eyes. "I tell you something that Josh said to me and you make it about my trust issues with Jackson, a man I knew for just a few hours?"

"Don't avoid the question. Did you trust Jackson, if even for the smallest second?"

Lisa again rolled her eyes, putting her frustration on display with an exasperated sigh. "I trusted Jackson as much as I trust any stranger."

"Strangers can do us harm. You learned that from Jackson." Lisa wanted to cry, to throw things in a rage, to unleash a fury beyond human comprehension. She had not learned anything about strangers from Jackson that she hadn't already learned. She had been raped. She solved her issues regarding the assault in the parking lot by taking it out on Jackson. All he had done was provide her with an appropriately chauvinistic target upon which she could work out her feelings. Truth be told, she didn't feel anything regarding the rape anymore. She had genuinely come to terms with it. Jackson Rippner had inadvertently saved her in his own way. But now she had to deal with him and he was something she couldn't handle because—she wasn't sure why. There was something about him that she couldn't shake. He was stuck in her mind and she couldn't exorcise him. He had started to migrate away from her brain and take over various parts of her being: her personality, her attitude, her heart, or what was left of it. She could feel her soul, the essence of her being, rotting from the inside because she was helpless to heal herself.

Lisa knew that Laird was ready to waste another hour diagnosing and repairing a mentality that she assumed Lisa had when in fact Lisa didn't have it at all. "I know strangers can do us harm. I'm healthy enough to know that I cannot go through life fearing and hating strangers, nor can I be paranoid and distrusting on unfounded suspicions. We don't even need to go there." Laird seemed to be half offended and half amused. Lisa wondered if Laird was aware that she had searched the office for spy equipment before several sessions a few weeks prior. The irony of Lisa's paranoia was lost to her because it wasn't considered paranoia if everyone really was out to get her, and based on the evidence she had collected in her life thus far, it seemed to be a fair assumption that they were indeed out to get her. "If I have trust issues, it's with myself."

Laird's eyes lit up at the newest problem to solve. "How do you not trust yourself?"

Lisa was surprisingly grateful that Laird was confronting her about this. "I'm angry. I feel like I don't know who I am and what I'm capable of doing. I don't know why bad things happen to me and I'm resentful. I don't know why Jackson Rippner wouldn't give me up. I don't know why everyone treats me differently now."

Lisa absently reached up and touched her French braid to make sure the tail was still securely tucked under the upper part of the braid and hidden from view. She had taken to wearing her hair pulled back. At first, she had said it was because she didn't feel like taking the time to tame her curls and make herself look perfect. Then she said it was because she didn't want to be as easily recognized by the media. The truth, she finally accepted, was that she was ashamed of her hair for some reason. She had a vague memory, or perhaps nightmare, that as she lost consciousness when Jackson head-butted her on the plane, he had touched her hair, perhaps her face. She lost all urge to share her hair with the world again, so she took to wearing it in braids, buns, and twists, all concealing its length and making it more formal, severe, and unapproachable.

"What do you mean Jackson Rippner wouldn't give you up?"

Lisa shrugged in a juvenile way, now wanting to avoid something she was prepared to discuss only seconds earlier. "It was a job. He said he was a professional, unemotional, ready to do the job and move on, but he wouldn't stop following me. Even after the job was blown and he had lost, he still followed me. He had unfinished business with me on a personal level."

"He lied, Lisa, obviously. He said he wasn't emotional, but he was acting on emotion. He wanted vengeance. I asked how you didn't trust yourself and all of your reasons were about you personally…except for this one. Does that mean you don't trust yourself with regards to how you handled Jackson Rippner?"

Lisa wasn't sure if she even understood the question, so she didn't answer it. "Or does it mean you don't trust yourself to move on from him?" Laird tried again.

Lisa still refused to speak up, but this time she at least gave consideration to the question. Perhaps Laird was right. Lisa couldn't move on from Jackson because she couldn't move on from the rape until Jackson. Did that mean Lisa was a twisted enough individual that she needed a third act of violence in her life to heal her from the second, and then a fourth to heal her from the third, and so on until the end of time? Since meeting Jackson, Lisa had acquired a taste for danger. She needed the rush of adrenaline that came with fear and she had started craving violence and physical aggression. Since Josh kicked her out of his training center, she had concentrated her energy into sit-ups, push-ups, and every other kind of around the house workout she could coerce herself into doing. But there was still something left unsatisfied in her, a satisfaction she had felt only when she banged her head against Jackson's and sent him down the stairs with a high heel in his thigh. It was raw and primitive, and it was the only thing that made sense to her anymore. Kill or be killed. The socially acceptable person she was before was long gone and in her place was this…_other_ person.

Lisa's eyes widened as she experienced a sudden moment of epiphany. "I don't trust myself to be _me_, who I was before, because he could read me like a book. He knew everything and he knew me better than I knew myself."

"How does that make you not trust yourself?" Laird asked once more, this time helping shape the context of the conversation.

"I'm afraid to be that person again." Lisa remembered that who she was before was a woman who had been avoiding acknowledgement of her rape. Jackson had not known about the assault yet still managed to play her perfectly with regards to every aspect of her being except that. In the end, the anger associated with that violation had surprised and ultimately defeated Jackson. Now, there was nothing left. She couldn't be that person again. Jackson had helped her extinguish that person. Jackson Rippner had both demolished her and built her, but he left her life before he could help her discover herself. She would never be rid of the bastard. Somehow between fake pleasantries in line and hurling her down the stairs, he had somehow etched himself into her DNA and become both her creator and destroyer. Their unintentionally codependent relationship was dominating and parasitic, and it threatened to end her yet again.

Lisa leaned forward in her chair, her elbows on her knees and her face buried in her hands. "I'm afraid because I _can't_ be that person again. She's dead. And I don't know who I am now."

* * *

**July, 2006**

It had been a whirlwind romance, but it was allegedly the real deal. Cynthia was getting married to—of all people—one of the FBI agents who had kept an eye on Lisa at the Lux Atlantic during the five months she was under guard. Cynthia and Danny had fallen in love almost immediately, and after a little under a year together, they were getting married. It was to be a major spectacle despite being thrown together in no time flat. Cynthia had wanted Lisa to be one of her bridesmaids, but Lisa declined a little too vehemently, claiming that she wasn't good enough for Cynthia's wedding, that it should be a family and close friends event and she merely didn't qualify. After much discussion, she finally convinced Cynthia not to pick her as a bridesmaid—that way, Lisa technically didn't have to say no.

Lisa ended up sitting in the back row of the small Catholic Church. To her left was a giant white tulle bow and to her right was some hefty old man with snow white hair and a red face. She was fortunate enough to go through most of the service unseen and unnoticed in her basic black dress that covered her from knee to neck and had short sleeves. Her hair was held back in a tight French twist and she wore hardly any make-up.

Make-up had become a problem for her as of late. She had difficultly looking in the mirror, in any reflective surface actually. When she looked at herself, she saw a stranger and that stranger was a terrifying one. She would see this person she didn't know, and sounds, images, and feelings would overwhelm her. She would hear Jackson reminding her about the importance of good customer service and not lying, she would feel her head encountering the bathroom wall, and she would see the old Lisa writing a message on the plane's bathroom mirror with dry soap. It wasn't a fluke occurrence for a mirror to bother her. It was an incident growing in frequency. Getting ready in the mornings was the worst part of the day because of the bathroom mirror, so Lisa took to putting on only enough make-up to make sure she was presentable, and it was usually nothing more than basic mineral powder. She could do it with her eyes closed, just like she could do her hair every day. Some part of her also realized that her new minimalistic appearance represented her own dwindling self-worth and esteem, and it was her way of isolating herself. She had enough voices haunting her mind for a lifetime. She didn't require anyone for company, so seclusion was no sacrifice on her part. In fact, it was a blessing.

At the reception, Lisa uncomfortably sat at a group table with a bunch of unfamiliar people who were chatting easily amongst each other. Lisa tried to remember if she was ever that approachable, ever that able to enjoy life and relax in the presence of outsiders, but all she could recall was putting on her best Manager's face and making sure all her customers, regardless of special needs, were happy. It reminded her of when she had joined Jackson at the airport for a drink out of a combination of being determined to drive herself into normalcy and feeling guilt at seeing him there alone. Even when she had an after-work drink with a few co-workers, it was still part of the job—she still had people to please and an image to maintain. Having a drink in a genuinely mellow atmosphere had been something she had never experienced, but she had trouble caring about it in the big scheme of things.

"Lisa?"

Unenthusiastically, Lisa tilted her head to look over her shoulder. "Josh," she said in total surprise. "What are you doing here? You know Cynthia?"

"Yeah," Josh cheerfully answered. He claimed an empty chair from another table and dragged it behind Lisa. He sat backwards in it, his arms folded over the top of the chair in front of him. He was such a Neanderthal sometimes, but it was part of his earthy charm. "Actually, no, no I don't know Cynthia. I mean, I met her a few times at the hotel and we chatted, but I don't actually _know her_-know her, ya know?" Lisa's eyebrows knitted upward in confusion. "Well, I was _kinda_ looking for you and we _kinda_ got started talking aboutyou and she _sorta _invited me to the wedding in the hope that we could _accidentally _meet up casually and by a total fluke of fate." Josh grinned proudly at his scheme's success. "So here I am."

Lisa faked a small smile, but she was pretty sure it was nothing more than a straight line across her face. "You kicked me out," she slowly reminded Josh as she rearranged her position in her seat to face him better. She gracefully crossed her legs.

"I did," he admitted, pointing a finger at her. "But I did it because I care. And it doesn't mean that I don't like you. I do like you."

Lisa wasn't sure what to say, so she said nothing. "I was hoping you like me, too," he added, shrugging nonchalantly at his high school level confession. "Cynthia seems to think I have a chance with you and she was hoping that nothing makes one in the mood to 'like someone' more than a nice romantic wedding."

"Josh," Lisa began uncertainly. "I'm not sure if—I mean, I don't think—"

Josh held up a hand to stop Lisa. "That's the problem. You think too much. Not everything can be explained logically, Lisa." Lisa was taken aback. She had never been accused of being too logical before. "Sometimes, you just have to feel." Josh cast a quick glance at the dance floor. There weren't too many couples, nor were there too few couples. "C'mon, let's dance."

He reached out a hand to Lisa, but she wasn't going to accept it. Unfortunately, he didn't give her a choice. He took her hand from her lap and dragged her to the dance floor. She was anxious and out of her element. Tears actually gathered in her eyes and her breathing became a little more erratic. She gasped a few times and then forced herself to breathe. Josh didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't let it show. On the exterior, they seemed like a normal couple, but beneath the surface, Lisa felt like a hostage taken against her will. She was nauseated by the smell of the hot freshly-paved asphalt parking lot that sneaked in through the opening of the door and the air vents. The warm, rough hands of Jackson Rippner had somehow transcended time and space and were now around her throat. She cringed under the dominating and assuming palm on the small of her back as she obediently swayed more-or-less in sync with her current dancing partner. Overwhelmed by these sensations, there was nothing more that she wanted at that moment than freedom.

Lisa removed her hand from where it was barely touching his shoulder and she wiped at the back of her neck nervously. She started wheezing again and Josh recognized something was wrong. He stepped back from her but kept his hand on her waist supportively. "Lisa?" he asked in genuine concern. He was not oblivious. Since the first day he met Lisa, he knew that she came with more baggage than LAX on a holiday. He didn't want to push her, but he did want to be part of her life. He and Cynthia had discussed Lisa at length and they both knew she was not _right_ anymore. She was changing and they were helpless to do anything for her. All they could come up with was to act like they normally would and hope that Lisa would snap back, but so far, she hadn't even come close to being alright again. Lisa's eyes were wide and she was looking around the room like she didn't recognize the place.

The room started to spin. The other couples were swaying dizzyingly close to them and her senses were invaded by a sudden gust of scorching air filled with obnoxious perfumes and colognes. The sounds of the room became louder and thicker, coming across more like a dense hum than individual noises. She could hear the occasional high pitched laugh and it sent chills down her spine. She saw Josh's lips moving in front of her, but she couldn't hear him. The hand she clearly recalled him placing on her waist in a respectful, safe position seemed heavy and controlling. She had to get away, she had to have fresh air and open space. She couldn't breathe—

"Lisa?"

Lisa put a hand to her forehead and she seemed to collect herself. "I'm sorry, Josh." She gazed at him pleadingly, hoping he would see the answer in her eyes and accept it sympathetically. Lisa disappeared into the crowd, no doubt darting for the door and not looking back.

* * *

**August, 2006**

Lisa finished taping shut the last box and set it by the door. The moving van she had rented was outside and ready to be loaded, but she preferred to finish boxing before she started loading. After making sure that all of the boxes were prepped and ready, Lisa opened the door and started carrying her apartment's possessions outside. As she slid the first box to the back of the U-Haul, she could sense that she was being watched. She stepped out and away from the van, and surveyed a full circle around herself. She saw nothing out of the ordinary and that bothered her more than anything else she could have possibly seen. She often felt like she was being watched when she was at her apartment. It seemed like she was on permanent exhibit for the world to observe.

In all honesty, Lisa liked her apartment. It was a great place, with a great landlord and in a great neighborhood. It was in a great location that was convenient to the Lux Atlantic. Everything about it was great, great, and great. Unfortunately, whenever she looked out the window, she could imagine Jackson Rippner watching her. Every time she sat up most of the night, slept for a few hours, and then woke up early for work, she could almost hear his scathing commentary as he mocked her for her bizarre habits borne out of emotional distress and the need for mental survival. The apartment was tainted. He could find her there and she didn't mean that only with regards to its physical location. The apartment was as much Lisa as Lisa was the apartment. When one's home is violated, that trust can never be regained.

Lisa briskly walked back to the apartment and got her second large box. She was almost to the street when a voice offered, "Let me help you with that." Lisa dropped the box and its contents clanged loudly.

"Agent West," Lisa breathed, exhaling the air of a skipped heartbeat as she clutched her chest. "What are you doing here?" Samuel West stood before her in khakis and a red polo shirt. He looked like he had a date with a country club's golf course. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes from her, but she was pretty sure she knew what those calculating orbs were up to behind their dark lenses.

"Would you believe I was in the neighborhood?" he asked jovially. Lisa didn't smile or laugh. There was something that was a little too truthful about his explanation. "I was in the neighborhood visiting my niece two blocks over." Samuel bent over and picked up the box for Lisa and she walked with him to the van. "She just got her first apartment off campus. She likes to pretend she's living it up like a mature woman, but her parents told me she is scared to death of being in the big scary world alone." It was like Samuel was talking more to her than about his alleged niece. "Where are you moving?" he asked coolly.

Lisa bit her lower lip. She was starting to do that more often and it was a habit she needed to remind herself to break. She didn't like having such tells reveal her thoughts. "To a new apartment," she answered vaguely as she retrieved another box and Samuel did the same. She had the uneasy feeling that Samuel wanted to know where she was moving to—as in a specific location—and that was, quite honestly, none of his business. "It's time for a change," she elaborated without actually clarifying anything. "It's time for me to move on."

Samuel snorted, as if chuckling over an inside joke that no one else knew. "Yeah, there's a lot of that feeling going around."

* * *

**November, 2006**

After several years of picking sides, having double holidays, and experiencing countless awkward moments, Lisa's family had finally decided to unite for Thanksgiving. That meant no more rotating holidays every year or having to jump on a plane to experience holidays with both parents. Lisa's mom and dad set aside their differences for the first time (something that made Lisa a little curious) and had Thanksgiving in Texas. Lisa's brothers and their families flew in from London and San Diego, and even Duke joined them. What made the situation a little uncomfortable was that Lisa's mom chose Thanksgiving to show off her new boyfriend, Mike.

She had always given her parents credit for being intelligent. They loved their daughter with a fierce sense of overprotection, but they seemed to be in denial regarding her well-being as of late. Joe had simply brushed off Lisa's behavior as something that she had earned the right to feel. He didn't see the darkness in her, the tense unspoken aggression, or the increasingly dominating loner tendencies. He merely saw her as someone who had given up the fake walls and false pretenses she had been living behind since the assault. He had either convinced himself or actually believed that this was what Lisa was supposed to be like, inside and out. Lisa's mother, however, saw a daughter who was being immature and lazy, and she felt Lisa needed to get over her problems and move on. After several fights with Lisa since Jackson's sentencing was announced, her mother had finally surrendered and agreed to remain silent concerning what she deemed to be Lisa's many shortcomings. This Thanksgiving was the first time they had been civil to one another in a while, and although both maintained civil appearances, it was nice to pretend things were normal, even if they weren't.

Lisa's brothers were as successful and perfect as ever. Lisa, quite bluntly, was the family failure. Her parents doted on her, but she knew she was the letdown. Her brothers were doctors, top of their classes, and so on. She was the baby of the family who went to the local university for a mere business degree. She worked as a hotel manager. She turned down two promotions at the hotel, both of which came after the Red Eye flight. She didn't want to be promoted and she wasn't sure if it was because she liked the incognito status that came with being the family loser or if she didn't want to take on added responsibility in a job that had suddenly become trivial and meaningless in a life that had transformed overnight. Seeing her perfect brothers with their perfect trophy wives and perfect children made her feel perfectly ill. Resenting her brothers, the brothers she loved dearly and the sweet children she couldn't dislike, made her feel even lower.

There was a time when she could have never seen her mother as an overbearing nag, her father as a blind man who "loved" her no matter what, and her brothers as shallow paper dolls sitting impeccable and unwrinkled on a pedestal for their vacant wives and programmed children to adore. She had never seen her family in such an unsavory light and the possibility that they were anything other than her kind, loving, close-knit family that supported and cared for her unconditionally had never occurred to her until meeting Jackson Rippner. Now she saw lies and pretenses everywhere, including in her own family. She wasn't sure if this was how Jackson viewed the world, but if it was, things were starting to make a lot more sense to her. She wanted to believe that it was all a negative viewpoint, that her eyes were clouded over by a jaded idea put into her mind against her will, but as she smiled on autopilot throughout the dinner, she noted how empty her family really was. She could no longer see or feel their love, and in hindsight, she started to doubt their love had ever been real at all. Was this the case with all human beings? Was love merely the mindset people assumed as a social protocol in order to blend in and be "normal"? Or was love something only for those of pure mind and heart, those who were good enough to have it?

She didn't have much to give thanks for anymore, but she still put on a beaming smile and gave everyone the memories they expected her to give them of a happy family gathering.

* * *

**April, 2007**

Lisa sat at the small desk in her office at the Lux Atlantic. She had the honor of going through the paperwork for a tour group that had booked the hotel for a week and the computers had crashed just before their check-in time. She was stuck with manually overriding the once again operational computer with the contents of the paper forms. The intercom on her desk phone rang. She absently hit the button. "Yes?"

"Lisa, there's someone here to see you," Cynthia said plainly.

"I'll be there in a minute." There had been a time when Lisa would have jumped to her feet and promptly taken command of the situation at the front desk, but she had difficulty caring about accommodating anyone so efficiently these days. The rest of the world would have no problem making her wait, so her philosophy was that they, too, could wait until she finished the page she was on at the moment. When she completed that page, she put it face down in the "done" pile and left her office.

Propped against the front desk and chatting with Cynthia was Josh. "Hey," he said almost shyly. Usually he was a t-shirt and jeans kind of guy, but today he wore a pair of jeans with an untucked white dress shirt and navy blue sport coat.

"Hey," Lisa responded.

"I was in the neighborhood," he began. "Or I was after I drove forty-seven minutes across city in noon rush hour," he elaborated with a small grin. Cynthia giggled and looked to Lisa. Upon seeing Lisa's slight, well-mannered smile, Cynthia sobered and excused herself. After Cynthia was out of hearing range, Josh continued. "It's been a while, I know, but I wanted to see you."

"You don't give up," Lisa accused him bluntly. It had the potential of sounding rude, but the bewilderment on her face changed the inflection of her words. "Why?"

Josh shrugged and took a quick glance around the hotel. "I see someone who needs a friend but keeps pushing friends away. I see you, especially when you don't want to be seen, when you try your damnedest to hide from everyone and everything."

Lisa felt the sudden urge to cry. It was like she had been singled out in a crowd and taunted for being the different one, the one that didn't belong. How could Josh see her? Why did he want to be her friend? What could he possibly gain from being near her?

"Want to take a break?" Josh inquired, his head tilted downward so he could better see her downcast face.

* * *

Life was not short on derision or irony, Lisa thought as she sat in Starbucks with Josh. She sipped on a green tea while he had plain, basic coffee. They had no right to be in Starbucks with that kind of order. Even the girls behind the counter exchanged judgmental looks as Lisa and Josh ordered what had to be the most uncultured, unsophisticated order in the history of the coffee franchise. They sat at a small table in the back of the café, away from the loud crowds and the annoying Wi-Fi users typing away at full speed.

"How have you been?" Josh finally asked. He took a sip of his coffee as Lisa absently swirled a straw around in her tea.

"Fine," she answered reservedly.

Josh was clearly on edge. He took another rushed sip of his coffee. "Lisa, look, I'm sorry about the wedding," he divulged all of a sudden.

"That was almost a year ago," she brushed off his apology.

"There's no statute of limitations on inappropriate behavior to a friend. I'm sorry. I was obnoxious and pushy."

Lisa shook her head. "No, I'm the one who's sorry," she insisted. "I was—I didn't belong there and all I did was put myself—and you—into a situation that was uncalled for. I should've controlled myself better."

It was Josh's turn to shake his head disapprovingly. "No, that was on me. I pushed you and I knew you weren't ready, but I thought that I could somehow make it okay. I gave myself far too much credit for being a Don Juan," he joked. Lisa's face lit up in a brief sincere smile, but the doom and gloom quickly returned to her eyes. "You really shouldn't force yourself to always be in control. Control is highly overrated."

"I disagree. Control is what separates humans from animals." Lisa couldn't help seeing Jackson charge at her with a knife. Control was such a Jackson trait, yet he obviously demonstrated that control was apparently impossible. Lisa liked to think that she was stronger than him, and ultimately strong enough to successfully maintain control. The wedding proved to be her undoing as a panic attack, a physiological reaction to mental interpretation of physical stimuli, caused her to lose control.

"That sounds rather cold, don't you think?" Josh countered. "The best moments in life are when we lose control." Lisa recalled the jolt of adrenaline and pleasure she felt as she pounded Jackson with her old field hockey stick. "So, control issues aside, how are you, Lisa? How are you really?"

Lisa shrugged and took a long sip of her tea. "I finally took up Keefe on the therapy offer," she admitted.

"I'm glad. I know how hard that must be for you. Any breakthroughs?" Josh had a style about him that balanced sarcasm with friendly good-natured wit and that made it hard to take offense at how he worded things.

"I've had a few breakthroughs," Lisa disclosed, again allowing a small smile. "But it's mainly pointing out the obvious and there's nothing I can do about most of it."

"_Most _of it?"

"Caught that, huh?" Josh radiated pride and sat up a little straighter for emphasis. "I learned that I have trust issues—"

"I could've told you that," Josh muttered.

"—Not with others as much as with myself, or so my therapist thinks."

Josh briefly pondered the implications of her words as they both took a sip of their respective beverages. "How don't you trust yourself?"

Lisa rolled her eyes at the diagnosis she was about to explain. "I don't trust myself to be myself, much less know who I really am to begin with. I don't trust myself to be a good judge of others—"

"I completely agree with you there!" Josh concurred, earning a third legitimate smile from Lisa in one day.

"In short, I don't trust myself to be a real person again." It wasn't an admission she wanted to make, but she was definitely finished hiding behind it all the time.

"None of us are real, Leese. We just play the roles others expect us to be and that we expect of ourselves."

"Of course you'd say that, Jackson," Lisa automatically replied, still fiddling with the straw in her tea cup.

Josh blanched. "_Josh_," he corrected her. At first, he thought it must have been sarcasm, but then he discerned the oblivious expression on Lisa's face. She hadn't even realized her Freudian slip. Her reply had been so casual and effortless. All levity and claims of friendship were erased from his face as he leaned back in his chair, as far away from the table as he could. He was filled with resentment and it felt like a physical slap in the face.

Lisa looked up from her tea and upon seeing the disgust on his face, she became aware of her slip of the tongue and regretted it instantly. It had come out so naturally despite the fact that the closest she had ever come to calling Jackson by name to his face was her contemptuous "Jack" that she threw at him in her father's house. However, here she was, speaking of and to him with unintentional ease.

"Oh my God, Josh, I'm—"

"Is that why you've never responded to me? Am I like him?"

"Josh," she began, inching forward in her chair to stretch closer to him across the table. "Josh, no, no, don't think that."

"It's a pretty big slip up."

Lisa clapped her hand over her eyes and took a few deep breaths. Josh had said something that was so Jackson-like, combined with him calling her "Leese" after she had asked him not to do so when they had first met, that it had registered in her mind as Jackson's voice coming at her from across the table.

"Josh, I'm so sorry. You are _nothing _like him, _nothing_ _at all_ like him. It's just that—" Lisa trailed off, unable to put into words the explanation needed to excuse such an error.

Josh crossed his arms defensively as he stared at Lisa with new eyes, eyes that were probing her face for a suitable justification. "He's in your head, isn't he?" Josh guessed. Lisa's lips parted open in shock and she took shallow breaths through her dry lips rather than her nose. "The asshole is in jail and you still carry him with you. What happened between you two? What the hell did he do to you?" Josh demanded. He sounded like her father, or what her father would have sounded like had she shared her deepest secret with him.

No one, not even her therapist, knew the role Jackson had played in her life. The few hours they shared contact with one another were insignificant compared to the lasting ramifications his words and actions had inflicted on her life. She didn't hallucinate him or hear his voice. No, she wasn't that insane, or at least not yet. But Jackson was part of her mind and the memories of him that haunted her were her only companions these days, and dark memories made strange bedfellows. The world no longer had a place for Lisa and people would never understand her trauma, a trauma that was more than mere harassment on an airplane and attempted murder in her father's house. Josh, no matter how seasoned his life may have been, would never comprehend Lisa's situation.

But that didn't stop him from hazarding a guess. "I think I understand your trust issues now," Josh announced with a dry laugh. There was no humor in his voice, just the sorrow that comes with a man understanding his place in the life of a woman who could never see him standing in front of her patiently waiting. "Jackson Rippner was the guy I heard about on the news, the guy you never talked about to me. But _Jackson_ is somebody else that I don't even think the paparazzi knew about," Josh theorized. Lisa felt her face flush. Josh was shuffling closer to something that even she was unable to ponder in her darkest moments. "Jackson is a problem for you, isn't he, Lisa?"

"Jackson's not a problem," Lisa insisted, chuckling nervously. Her eyes started to tear up, so she looked out the window to her immediate left.

"What did he do to you?" Josh softly repeated, his voice barely a whisper.

"He didn't do anything to me. He's not an issue," Lisa answered as she kept a keen watch on the cars coming and going in the parking lot.

Horror shrouded Josh's square jaw and roughly chiseled features. "You…somehow fell in love with him?" he simultaneously asked and stated.

Lisa harshly laughed and that one quick sardonic chuckle was all she could muster. She didn't like hearing one of blackest possibilities she had considered in the most subterranean crevices of her mind to be announced in the light of day as if it were legitimate and worth a second thought. Hearing one of the most shameful secrets she had considered in her lowest moments turned her stomach and sent the tea back up into her throat. She swallowed hard, forcing down the acidic ball that tightly blocked her airway.

"Don't be ridiculous. I could never love a monster…" The logical implication of her words suggested she could never love a monster like Jackson Rippner, but she knew the real answer was that she could never love a monster like herself. She and Jackson were different sides to the same coin. They had their own ways of speaking, thinking, and doing things, but the ends were always the same. She never knew the phrase "customer service" was so loaded.

Josh shook his head to himself before he shared his next revelation. "There's a thin line between love and hate. Either way, it's a lifelong investment." Lisa knew he was right. It was impossible to hate without investing in the object of hatred. Hate took time and dedication, and Lisa had it. Her reasoning behind the hatred had matured with time, though. She had started by hating Jackson as a chauvinistic representation of her rapist, but that had been too easy. Then she hated Jackson for being yet another hurdle in an already soiled existence. Now, however, Lisa was to the point of hating Jackson because she knew he was no better than she was and he had, in so many words, told her he suspected as much. The only difference was that he had never lied to her—but she had lied to both of them.

Josh continued. "You beat the guy senseless and shot him. Your father shot him. What happened between the time you met him on the plane and when they hauled his ass off to the hospital?"

Lisa regained precious control of herself and her emotions. "Jackson Rippner tried to kill me. But the son of a bitch ended up saving me from something no one will ever know or understand." Josh didn't know about her assault—he _couldn't _know. No one would ever know, no one save her family and Jackson. "He was the only one screwed up enough to possibly understand that nothing is personal in life and that horrible things happen to people, no matter who they are or what they do—and that these things are sometimes out of our control. That we are victims or villains and the choice is ours alone. He was the only one who somehow made everything make sense and he didn't even realize he did that!" she blurted out. A few people in the coffee shop stared at her for her loud brashness, but she glared right back at them. Two girls actually took their drinks and left.

Lisa had been able to come to terms with her rape because of her experience with Jackson, but it had come at the cost of her soul, her family, her friends, and her life as it could and perchance should have been. Somehow, though, it all seemed like a small price because in the end, the disconnection she felt from humanity made logical sense to her. It was sad and lonely from her place on top of the world as she watched the sky fall, but that was the price one had to pay for enlightenment and being allowed the honor of knowing the sky was indeed falling. "He made the world make sense, as fucked up as that is," Lisa crudely noted.

"What did he do?" Josh asked yet again, his whisper even more gentle this time. He reached out and took her hand in his across the table. She sniffed back her tears and looked into his eyes with a hardness that startled him. Her hand was limp in his grasp.

"He was nothing I couldn't handle then or now."

* * *

**May, 2007**

"Hold your arm like this," Josh instructed, manually moving Lisa's body to stand in a particular stance while he adjusted her arm. "That way, when you swing, your body is lending your arm the strength it needs. That arm will be pretty useless if you just wave it around and hope to hit something. Now, try it again." Lisa shuffled her stance and made herself reassume proper posture on her own as she followed through on the punch like Josh had commanded her to do. The mannequin rocked back as she struck its head.

"Fantastic," Josh commended. "So, are you about ready to call it a night?"

"No," Lisa answered breathlessly as she bounced on her feet and practiced punching the dummy repeatedly.

Josh had been training her for a little over two weeks. Since their conversation at the coffee shop, he had been able to see another side of Lisa. This side was not as irrationally hostile. Instead, she was a woman who was as much lost as she was in hiding. He had refused to teach her to fight two years earlier because the last thing she needed then was to have skills that she could use to jeopardize herself or others. Now, however, Josh saw that Lisa needed something that would help her reconnect with life. She had to rebuild herself and her inner strength, and the discipline that came with fighting would hopefully do that for her. If nothing else, Josh wished that he could teach her how to balance her issues and come to terms with the demons she fought in secret.

"That's enough for tonight," Josh insisted, this time leaving no room for debate. "We can pick up tomorrow with weights and cardio." He was a perfect coach. He refused to let Lisa control him or his teaching style. He required her to follow the same strict regimen that he mandated of all his students. Tuesday and Thursdays were for weight lifting and cardio exercises, while Monday, Wednesday, and Friday were for techniques. Josh's style was a combination of various martial arts and kickboxing, culminating in a unique form of street fighting. He was a poor kid from the streets who fought for survival of both body and mind, and his skills were the same tactics that were passed down by others who had been in similar situations. His fighting was not always pretty, but it was effective.

Lisa continued battering the hard foam mannequin. "Lisa, that's enough," Josh ordered, placing a hand on her shoulder to calm her. Lisa planted her feet and spun around, her elbow aimed straight at Josh's face. Josh reacted at the last second and confidently (and almost cavalierly) put up his hand to catch the pointed joint before it could reach him. "Close, but still no cigar," he chided. This was not the first time Lisa surprised him by attempting to one-up him and it wouldn't be the last time.

* * *

**July, 2007**

Lisa shopped in bulk. What few groceries she bought, she purchased them in bulk. When she had to buy clothes, she got as many as she could to last as long as she could make them last. When she had to buy anything, everything, whatever it may be, she bought it in bulk. The most bizarre part of it, however, was that Lisa went shopping after dark. Daylight shopping had slowly drifted out of her subconscious habits only to be replaced by nighttime shopping or, when applicable, online shopping. Most of what she needed could be purchased online and delivered by mail to her apartment, but some things still required personal attention.

She had been raped in a parking lot in broad daylight, but it had not stopped her from going back out into the world. Granted, for a while, most of her daylight excursions were with her father, Cynthia, or some casual friend or co-worker who was in the mood for a shopping buddy, but this phase had not lasted long. Her recent aversion to daytrips had come about slowly and for the sole purpose of added danger. For some reason, Lisa felt the need to court danger in a more palpable way than merely taking a chance in the daylight. Some part of her needed the adrenaline rush of knowing that she may have to battle for her life yet again. That rush was the only thing that made her appreciate that yes, she was undeniably alive. She had a hand constantly on the Taser in her unzipped purse and she was ready to do whatever was necessary to survive.

Her father had not said anything, but he was clearly disturbed by her new "hobby" of making herself an easy target. Lisa had quit therapy in exchange for street fighting lessons, and although he was pleased to see her take pride in her safety by learning how to defend herself, he couldn't help noticing the ominously self-serving reasons why she was doing it.

* * *

**October, 2007**

Traditionally speaking, Halloween at the Lux Atlantic was crazy. This year, two of the small conference rooms had been rented out for two separate parties for teens, while the third and main conference room had been rented by a major celebrity who wanted to throw a charity benefit masque. On top of this, there were more guests than usual during this time of the off season because a lot of locals liked to get a room in the city so the kids could have a safe trick-or-treating experience in the sanctuary of one of the city's more tourist-oriented areas.

"Do you need more candy?" Cynthia asked as she looked over Lisa's shoulder at the basket on the check-in desk's counter. Lisa could smell M&Ms and didn't have to look up to know that Cynthia, now six months pregnant, had a mouthful of chocolate.

"Nope. But the lobby lounge basket is running low," Lisa said, nodding toward where some children had discovered the candy by the television in the lobby's sitting area. Cynthia scurried off to refill the basket and Lisa snickered as she saw the redhead shove a fun size Milky Way into her already stuffed mouth.

The phone rang and Lisa picked it up on the first ring. "Lux Atlantic, Lisa speaking. How may I help you this evening?" There was silence for a moment on the line and Lisa almost hung up, thinking it was a prank. "Hello?" she asked, giving it a second chance.

"Hey, Lisa. Remember me?" The voice was oddly choppy and uneven sounding, but there was no mistaking the familiar cadence, the cool undertones that were both soothing and chilling.

"Jackson," Lisa stated. Her blood raced for just an instant, but she knew better than to feel anxious over the phone call.

"That's right. And I'm coming for you, Lisa." Lisa was not a fool. She looked around the lobby, her eyes searching for anything suspicious.

"Oh really?" she probed, leaving the lobby and walking down the hallway toward the conference rooms.

"Really," he replied after some delay.

"Well then, if you're really coming for me, you should at least use the Wi-Fi at the internet café down the street instead of the one right in front of me." Lisa turned off the phone and looked down at the two teens sitting in the hallway. Both were in costume, one as the Joker and the other in a business suit and wire rim classes. From where they sat, they had a clear view of Lisa as they used voice cloning software to duplicate Jackson's voice from various news reels that they had come across on YouTube. They thought it would make a great Halloween prank. Lisa disagreed. She stared down at the boys and when they sensed someone close to them, they peered up at her. The Joker squealed and Lisa was fairly sure he was about to cry all over his sloppy clown make-up.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" she asked. "Perhaps the police can help find something to keep you busy?" The boys stayed quiet. Lisa knelt down closer to them. "Would you like to know what I did to Rippner before the police took him away on a stretcher?" she inquired softly, her voice low and even. "I filled him full of bullets, but that's only after I beat him senseless with a hockey stick. Would you like to know what else I did to him?" The boys vehemently shook their heads "no." "Then I think you should call it a night before I get upset. I've been feeling a little moody all day," she lamented to herself.

The Joker with the laptop snapped it shut while the second boy reached down to retrieve his brown sack mask off the floor. They both ran for the door, almost crashing into Cynthia who dodged them at the last second.

"What happened?" she asked when Lisa met up with her in the lobby.

Lisa shrugged. "The Joker and that guy with the sack tag-teamed me with a prank call." At Cynthia's inquisitive look, Lisa elaborated, "They cloned Jackson Rippner's voice and called me at the desk."

"Oh my God," Cynthia gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth. "Shouldn't we report this to…someone?" Cynthia wasn't sure who they should report it to or to what end, but she knew it was wrong for Lisa to have to put up with such maltreatment.

"Nah, it's okay," Lisa resolved. "It takes more than a fake phone call from Jackson Rippner to bother me."

* * *

**March, 2008**

"Stop pointing your toes, princess! You ain't figure skating!" Josh screamed at Lisa. He was losing his patience with his student. They had been at this for hours and Lisa simply could not master the kicking technique that he had assigned her for that day. Basic kicks were not a problem, but Lisa could not wrap her mind around how to high kick or roundhouse kick without pointing her toes.

"You point 'em, you break 'em!" he shouted. "Keep balance," Josh directed as he lifted Lisa's leg to the side and up, forcing her into the kick pose. It took all the strength she had to hold that posture for longer than the mere seconds the actual action required. He bent her leg at the knee and then stretched her leg out into the kick, forcing her foot to remain flat. "Got it?" he questioned. Lisa nodded for the hundredth time that day. "Again!" he barked. Lisa took a deep breath and kicked with all her concentration and might.

* * *

**June, 2008**

Lisa considered Saturdays to be wasted days. Josh closed the center on those days and she didn't have to work on the weekends (though she had lately started coming in for half-days anyway). Lisa finally decided to purchase a gun, in particular, a Glock. She enrolled at a nearby shooting range, but she felt ridiculous teaching herself how to use the gun. She was not a stranger to guns. After her attack in the parking lot, her father had given her a gun for protection and taught her how to use it—which was basically put in the bullets, cock it, aim it, shoot it. Lisa wanted more than that, so she recruited Cynthia's husband Danny. Danny joined her for an hour every Saturday for three weeks as he taught her to use the gun. She learned to speed load, a few tricks in holding it for aim improvement, how to shoot with either hand, and so on.

Every time she shot at the paper target, she saw Jackson Rippner's stone cold blue eyes twinkling at her.

* * *

**January, 2009**

It was 6 a.m. when Lisa arrived at the Lux Atlantic.

She worked all day, stopping only to take her mandatory lunch break during which she slowly sipped a bottle of cold water and stared blankly ahead.

At 6 p.m., she entered her apartment. She walked by the backpack and messenger bag that were always next to the door and entered the kitchen. She ate a brown-spotted banana, a few pieces of under-toasted toast, and guzzled down a full glass of bitter orange juice. She changed her clothes and headed out an hour later to train with Josh.

At 10:30, Lisa returned home and entered her bathroom. She stripped out of her clothes and stepped into the shower.

After her shower, she dried off and put on her nightclothes. All of this was performed without even a subtle acknowledgement of the mirror in the bathroom. Mirrors had been omitted from her life for years, first by using them more infrequently, but later by not using them at all. Mirrors looked back. The person in the mirror was a different person. Even author Lewis Carroll knew this, a disturbing fact that led him to write _Alice in Wonderland _and _Through the Looking Glass_. He knew that a mirror held another person from another world. Lisa was aware of that too, but what she didn't know was if the mirror held captive her good self from the past or if the mirror revealed the dark entity inside Lisa that was clawing and biting to get out. The risk was too great for her to look.

Lisa walked through her dark apartment and crawled into bed. Her apartment was always dark. Light revealed things through windows. Darkness concealed them. She lay silently in bed, her eyes wide open, for at least fifteen minutes before sleep finally overtook her.

Throughout the night, Lisa tossed and turned. She did not dream or have nightmares. She never dreamed. She never reached a good night's sleep.

She was already awake before her alarm went off at 4:45 a.m. the next morning.

Everything happened again that day just as it happened the day before.

* * *

**June, 2011**

Lisa was checking-in her favorite assholes (not assholes, merely "guests with special needs") for their usual Miami summer getaway when she heard the volume increase on the lobby's television. As she handed the guests their key and check-in materials, Lisa cast a glance to her side where Cynthia had been working on the computer, but there was no Cynthia. Lisa left the front desk for the lobby's lounge area where Cynthia, several guests, and a couple of the hotel's staff were all focused on the breaking news.

Lisa didn't have to read the caption on the bottom of the screen to know what was going on. The montage of Jackson Rippner's greatest moments in front of the media spotlight told her everything.

Jackson Rippner had escaped.

* * *

**July, 2011**

Over a month had passed and nothing had happened. In fact, for the first time in years, Lisa felt like she was _not _being watched. The FBI and local police had all jumped to Lisa's defense and immediately put her under 24-hour surveillance in case Jackson Rippner came after her. For some reason, though, Lisa did not fear his retaliation. She was fairly certain that Jackson had cleared his head over the years and regained that cold composure he possessed when they had first met. She was confident he had bigger fish to fry, such as regaining his reputation in what was surely a competitive field of work.

At 5:58 p.m., Lisa unlocked her front door. She didn't turn on the lights. She never turned on the lights anymore. She fully entered the apartment, locked and bolted the door, dropped her bag in the tan upholstered chair closest to the door, and headed toward the kitchen. She felt a tension in the air so strong that it was almost like an electric current. Goosebumps formed on her arms and the apartment somehow seemed quieter than usual.

In the hallway that lead from the kitchen to the bedroom, a pair of arms wrapped around her and a hot hand clapped over her mouth. She immediately screamed in terror, the sound muffled to a shrill vocalization of her throat. This couldn't be happening, not again. After all the ways she had hunted danger, after all the hours of training, after all the times she had pictured herself being the one on the offensive rather than defensive side, this could not be happening again. "Shh, Leese. I'm not here to hurt you. We have business—"

Before he could whisper another word in her ear, Lisa slammed her head back into his, disorienting him long enough to break free from his arms and jam her elbow into his throat. Her hair fell loose now and into her face. Jackson hunched over a little in reaction to Lisa elbowing him and his lower posture gave her the perfect angle to plant a swift kick in his middle. In automatic response, he wheeled back into an upright position and reached out to intercept Lisa's incoming fist. He caught the punch a split second before it would have impacted with his face. Lisa was stunned as Jackson squeezed her balled up fist in his hand, his strength evident and this time clearly dominant. Her eyes grew wide at the realization that Jackson was at the physical advantage over her this time. The Jackson she had known had not been terribly strong or a fighter.

"You're not the only one with nifty new skills," he shared before jerking her arm behind her, forcing Lisa to turn her back to him as he reeled her against him. "I'm not here for this," he insisted, again opting to whisper almost intimately in her ear. Jackson's breath in her ear was intimate and seemed almost like what a lover would do. It sent shivers up her spine and made her feel a wave of nausea, but she also found herself oddly stirred by it. That alone caused her to be all the more disgusted at him as well as herself. She attempted to backward head-butt him again, but he dodged it. "None of that, please. I'm here to save you. Ironic, don't you think?" he couldn't help remarking with an ephemeral smile.

"Bullshit!" she yelled with a grunt. In an instant, Jackson was being flipped over her shoulder and onto the floor, a classic self-defense move that was taught in Defense 101, and he had foolishly walked right into it. Lisa's mind was shifting into gear as her fight or flight instincts from her father's house activated again. This was her third time to settle unfinished business and her hypothesis that violence was going to be a never-ending cycle of occurrence and resolution in her life was starting to seem true. Jackson had been her way of resolving her rape and now he was going to be her way of resolving her last encounter with him.

"Enough!" Jackson barked. He jumped back to his feet and when Lisa tried to kick him again, he deflected her leg with his outstretched arm. In a lightning fast motion, she spun and attempted to kick from the other direction, and he again repelled it with his other arm. She darted at him to punch him, but he ducked and instead charged at her, tackling her to the ground. They wrestled briefly as she attempted to bite, kick, and scratch him, but he grabbed her wrists, pinning them down above her head. Her legs powerfully flailed, hoping to knee him in the groin, but he made his own legs become dead weight over hers.

"There are people watching you right now—"

"To protect me from you!"

"—and they work for my Company—"

"They're cops and FBI—"

"You know something—they want you dead for it. Six years—" Lisa began to squirm again with rising anger and Jackson held her down tighter. He was about to continue speaking when he looked deeply into her eyes for the first time since seeing her again. Lisa's eyes were filled with tears of terror and panic, and as she resisted him, she struggled to control her own breathing to keep from having a panic attack. He began again. "It's been six years and they've _just now_ decided you're important enough to kill. That says something. Now I need you to tell me: what do you know?"

Lisa was dumbfounded. Of all the things she expected to hear from Jackson Rippner, this was not one of them. She knew nothing and how Jackson could get it in his unbalanced head that she knew something was beyond comprehension. She wasn't about to tell him that she knew nothing, so she put on her best poker face. Lisa laughed coldly, and when she did, a stray tear escaped from her right eye. "Like I'll tell you. Just kill me now and get it over with. Because if I get loose, I'm going to kill _you_." Lisa's eyes changed from terror and panic to something savage, something scary. She could feel herself wanting to hurt him, wanting to see him recoil as she pulverized his skull or gaze at her with that look of shock, hurt, and resentment as she filled him full of bullets.

"We have a matter of minutes before the Company storms this house and kills us both." For some reason, Lisa trusted his words. She saw something in his eyes that reinforced the oath he had sworn last time: Jackson Rippner never lied. She stopped struggling. She didn't believe him completely, but he had her attention if for no other reason than curiosity. "They want me because I screwed the pooch on this one, but why they want you after all this time, only you can tell me that." Jackson hesitated before abruptly blurting out, "Tell me and I'll protect you."

Lisa didn't miss a beat. "No, no you won't!" With all her might, Lisa shoved Jackson back and knocked her fist into his face. Jackson fought back, this time striking his fist into her cheek just as she had decked him. The air left her lungs from the pressure of the impact, and when she breathed again a second later, she felt the delayed sting and burn of the hit. He ran up to her and put her into a chokehold. It was tight enough to slightly cut off her air, but it wasn't enough to make her gag and gasp just yet.

"You'd be dead already if I wanted to kill you. How many times do I have to tell you: I'm not a killer. I'm a Manager. And right now, I'm an unemployed Manager trying to figure out why my old bosses want me and my former assignment dead!" Lisa back-rammed her foot into his shin. He hissed faintly, but he didn't let go. Instead, his hold constricted as he wrapped one of his legs around hers to keep her from kicking again. He clutched her hair and yanked her head back to prevent her from biting his arm. "Now, I'll ask you again, what the hell do you know?"

Both were taken by surprise when the door burst open and there stood the two "cops" and the jogger Lisa had seen in her neighborhood several times this week. Lisa lunged forward out of Jackson's grip and when she turned to her saviors, she realized that she and Jackson both had red lasers from three guns targeting them.

If the situation had not been so dire, Lisa and Jackson's seemingly slow motion turn to face one another would have been comical. Without communication, the two came to an unspoken truce. First, they would fight the third party that interrupted their personal discussion and then they would resume beating the daylights out of each other. It was important to have priorities in life.

Jackson ran for the kitchen, bullets whizzing by his ear. As the three were distracted by Jackson, Lisa approached the trio and picked one away from the group by tugging his arm and flipping him over her shoulder and onto the floor. Her eyes sought out the other two and was pleased to find that they had pursued Jackson into the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Jackson went through several drawers and after finding most of them empty, he finally discovered the one with the knives. He reached in and took a small one, a peeler knife no doubt, and threw it as he whirled around. He had aimed on instinct alone and luck was on his side as the knife embedded itself into the left shoulder of the first man to enter the kitchen. As the guy stumbled back, attempting to pull the knife out without causing additional damage, the second man pushed him aside and opened fire on Jackson. Jackson took cover behind the built-in island in the middle of the kitchen. It was small, but it worked.

Lisa, meanwhile, was tackled to the ground as she raced to capture the fallen gun from where it had landed about six feet from the guy she brought down. She fell face first and a small trickle of blood came from her lip as her tooth dug into it. He had her on the floor face down and he started to position his hands on her head to snap her neck. Lisa thrashed about and slid her arms out from under her body. She reached above her head and seized him by the ear and hair. His hair was short, but she still managed to clutch a hardy handful. He groaned and that told her he was preoccupied enough for her to swing her elbow behind her and nail him on the temple by his right eye. As he fell back to the floor in a reluctant sitting position, Lisa dove for the gun. When she clutched it, she did not hesitate to pull the trigger. A muffled pop sound was all she heard from the weapon as the bullet flew from the barrel's silencer and into the vulnerable chest of her attacker. As he collapsed back to the floor, eyes still wide and breath non-existent, Lisa permitted herself to sink to the floor and sit in shock for a moment.

Jackson threw a fillet knife blindly over the island. It landed uselessly somewhere away from the second man, but it was enough of a diversion for him to come out of hiding. He ran into the much larger man in a bent over position, shoving into his gut like an NFL player who was bucking for a pay raise next season. The man wheezed and Jackson used that opportunity to seize his arm and twist it back before removing the gun from him. Jackson tossed the gun out of range from both of them before reaching up to clench the man by his shirt collar. He wrenched his head down low enough to ram his knee into it. Jackson let him go long enough to punch him in the head with his fist. He then effortlessly moved a little to the side in order to kick the man's knees in, automatically forcing him to the floor. Jackson's eyes caught sight of a slight sparkle of light in the dim apartment: the fillet knife. He picked it up, cockily twirled it between his fingers, and then pierced it into the man's gut, ripping flesh and twisting it in deeper and repeatedly.

In the middle of all the action, Jackson had forgotten about the first man. He suddenly remembered him when he heard another gunshot. He saw the man still clutching his blood-gushing shoulder, his eyes heavy and his expression dazed. The man focused himself and shot again, but Jackson moved at the last second. He drove his fist into the man's injured shoulder, making him howl unprofessionally. He must have experienced an adrenaline high because he punched Jackson with such force that it knocked him straight to the floor a few feet back. Gunshots rang out from just outside the kitchen, but this time it was Lisa firing. He wasn't sure what was happening, but from the sound of it, Lisa had gotten too close and the man had snatched her hand holding the gun. No lights were on in the apartment and when the fight had started, there had still been some faint daylight imposing its way through the thick curtains. Now, however, the weak daylight was becoming softer and the curtains won the battle to contain the apartment's darkness.

Despite the lack of clear visibility, Jackson leapt to his feet and bolted into the dark living room. Blood dripped down his nose and his left eye felt puffy. His vision was a little blurry from the head trauma, but he was sure that would pass. What mattered at this moment was that the man had Lisa pinned on the ground, his hands around her throat and squeezing, and the gun had been knocked away. Jackson jumped on the man's back and attempted to slit his throat with the knife, but the man bucked and Jackson had a choice to surrender his hold on him or lose his grip on the knife. He relinquished the knife.

Because he was sidetracked by Jackson, the man lost his vice grip on Lisa's neck. She couldn't reach the gun or the knife, so she rammed her fist into his face. It reminded him she was there and he redirected his attention to strangling her. She was lashing out and gasping for air when she heard a distinct popping sound and saw that Jackson had snapped his neck. The body yielded to gravity and started to fall on her. She put her arms up in a defensive posture to hold it off of her, but it was too heavy and about to completely come down on her. Jackson heaved the body off of her and tossed it aside.

He stood and slowly, achingly stumbled a few feet back to retrieve the knife off the floor. Lisa didn't have to see him to know he was doing that. Likewise, she was already crawling a few feet away to commandeer the gun that had been lost in the struggle.

When she had the ever-elusive gun firmly in her grasp, she looked up to find Jackson standing over her, watching her with a knife in hand and an enigmatic expression on his face. Without taking the time or the chance to form assumptions, she reacted instinctively by supporting her weight with her arms and doing a roundhouse kick on the floor to knock his legs out from under him. He buckled straight down onto his knees and then fell forward, catching himself with one hand and still holding the knife with the other.

Just as Lisa had reacted instinctively, so did Jackson. Before she could rise up from her position on the floor, he shoved his arm out and pressed the bloody knife against the delicate pale skin of Lisa's neck while simultaneously Lisa cocked the gun and aimed it mere inches from Jackson's forehead.

A gun versus a knife. Lisa versus Jackson.

Both were bloody, bruised, and out of breath.

Both were waiting for the other to make the first move.

* * *

**TBC…**


	5. Ch 4: The Buddy System

**Chapter 4: The Buddy System**

* * *

**July, 2011**

Jackson shoved his arm out and pressed the bloody knife against the delicate pale skin of Lisa's neck while simultaneously Lisa cocked the gun and aimed it mere inches from Jackson's forehead.

A gun versus a knife. Lisa versus Jackson.

Both were bloody, bruised, and out of breath.

Both were waiting for the other to make the first move.

Neither was blind to the irony of being an arm's length away from the other after spending six years physically apart yet mentally ever-present in the outlandish trenches of both their minds.

Lisa was panting, desperately trying to control her breathing. With every breath that rushed in and out of her nose and slightly parted lips, her throat would touch the knife with just a little bit more pressure than she would have liked. Jackson's breathing was hard, but he was in command of his body, forcing oxygen in and out his nose with discipline. They glared at each other, eyes unreadable and faces neutral. Neither wanted to be the one to make the first move and neither knew to what end they were planning to bring this standoff. A dog barking excitedly across the street as if he were celebrating the return of his owner made both Lisa and Jackson flinch, a twitchy movement that both tried to conceal from the other between sneaking peripheral glances out the corners of their eyes to verify that they were indeed alone.

"I don't have time for this," Jackson finally broke the silent stalemate, sounding more impatient than nervous. "If you think those three are the end of this, you are dead wrong. I could care less if they come for you or even kill you." Jackson's words were raw, but Lisa almost savored his painful honesty. The importance of maintaining false faces and polite appearances had been irking her for years. She had never noticed how disrespectful socially expected insincerity was until Jackson had shown her the value of brutal honesty. "What I care about is what you know."

Her hand holding the gun was starting to sweat. "I know nothing," Lisa insisted, her voice and face steady and balanced as to keep Jackson from distinguishing if she was telling the truth.

"You obviously do," Jackson replied without hesitation, calling her bluff either way. "And I'm not going to argue over this. The fact of the matter is that I want to know what you know. If you won't tell me, then make your decision now. You can sit here and wait for them to come back. You can fight all you want, but one of them already has your name penciled in on his ledger and he's just waiting to write over it in pen."

"Or?" Lisa asked, prompting Jackson to move along to the second part of the decision that he was requesting she make.

"Or," Jackson continued, "you can come with me." Lisa snorted, a smirk briefly tugging at her lips before a haunted grim expression took over. "I swear to you that I will not harm or kill you, and I will not allow anyone else to either. I want you alive. _Very _alive," he reiterated. "Whatever you know is valuable to me because it will give me a bargaining chip and it's valuable to you because they want you dead in a very bad way right now. If we figure out what's going on, we can use it against them." Jackson deemed this to be entirely reasonable and he could only hope that Lisa would use the analytical side of her brain rather than her emotionally-polluted feminine sensibilities to make her decision.

Lisa searched deeply in his wide, ice blue eyes and saw nothing. He was a blank slate and the only thing that testified positively on behalf of his motives and intentions were his words. Words could be lies, but then again, Jackson claimed he never lied—unless that was a lie. The cool, moist knife still positioned against her throat seemed heavy and burdensome. Lisa felt her arms start to twitch and somewhat shake. The gun was weighty too. This was going nowhere.

"And then when we figure it out, you kill me, turn me over to them, or do whatever creative thing pops into your deranged mind. I have no reason to trust a word you say. You keep saying 'we,' but you and I both know there's only room for one person in your universe and it isn't me." She remained calm and composed. She wanted Jackson to know that the nervous and borderline hysterical questions of their last time spent together were a thing of the past. The woman she was now did not need to ask questions to simply hear the answer she already knew but refused to accept. This woman needed to express herself. Her words were significant and they had the right to be heard, no matter the cost.

Jackson rolled his eyes in the most juvenile display of behavior Lisa had ever seen from him and she had undoubtedly seen a wide variety of his eclectic behaviors. "Leese, we're running out of time here. I've never lied to you and I'm not going to start now. I want you alive. After we solve our respective problems, we will part ways with a handshake and a smile. Thirty years from now, we'll meet up at Starbucks and remember the good ole days over that coffee you still owe me."

Lisa swallowed hard; the emotion going down her throat bulged and made contact with the knife blade. She was repulsed by that twinkle in Jackson's eye and how his full lips curved in a soft, subtle smile. She definitely knew that she did not like him referencing his prison sentence. The statement was too multilayered to be a mere sneer in her direction. "Those three reported in before they came here," Jackson tolerantly explained in plain terms for her to comprehend. "When they don't report back to say the job is finished, people are going to come and they're going to come soon. Lisa, I need an answer and I need it now. Are you with me?"

Jackson drew the knife away from her neck and stood up. He gazed down upon her with the arrogance of a god as she lowered the gun and absently flipped on the safety. Lisa joined him in standing, her shoulders squared and her head held high. They were alarmingly close to one another and it was awkward, but they didn't take the time to let it show. Jackson put his hand out for her to shake. She stared at it like it was a snake about to snap at her. His hand was swollen at the knuckles and joints, and it had spots of blood on it from the brawl. She put out her own hand, equally swollen and bloody, and they shook on it, unintentionally sealing their agreement in blood. Lisa was selling her soul to the devil and all that was missing from this strange scene were horns on Jackson's head, a pitch fork, and a book of souls for her to sign her name.

He tugged back the edge of his sleeve and peeked down at his watch for a moment. "I parked in the driveway of the apartment directly behind yours. If you aren't in the car in exactly five minutes, I'm leaving without you." He acted as if he wanted to say something more personal, but he narrowed his eyes and brought himself back to being all business. "By the way, you might want to grab their guns for yourself. You never know if you'll need them."

Jackson opened the front door, casually wiped the doorknob clear of his fingerprints out of habit, and walked through it, not bothering to shut the door behind him. He didn't give a thought to the rest of his prints in the apartment, as he was certain his former Company would scrub away all evidence for their benefit rather than his. He crossed through the small side and back yards and over the fence as if he belonged there. Anyone who saw him would see someone comfortable in his environment and that was something that people never judged as being suspicious.

He opened the car door and let himself collapse into the driver's seat with a little less dignity than he would have liked. He was exhausted. He had trained harder than this in prison, but when he combined the fight with the mental burdens he carried, the day's workload had been tremendous. He desperately needed a good night's sleep and as long as trigger happy Lisa Reisert was around, he would have to sleep with both eyes open since the typical one eye would not be enough for her newly-acquired "enthusiasm."

Jackson lifted his arm to get a better look at his watch. Lisa had two minutes left. The back passenger door of the sedan unexpectedly opened and closed after Lisa threw in a large backpack, a messenger bag, and a laptop bag. She tossed her purse onto the floor and gracelessly flopped down into the front passenger seat before slamming the door and roughly jerking on her seatbelt. When she finally made eye contact with Jackson, she realized he was amused and curious, and he clearly had not expected her to be ready in time.

"My bags have been packed and ready to go since August of 2005. Most of my possessions stayed boxed up after I moved. All these years, I've kept contingency plans ready just in case."

Jackson didn't let it show, but he was stunned by Lisa's blunt admission of what had become of her since their last encounter. He was fairly confident that his reappearance in her life was not the reason that she had been ready to run all these years. He viewed his arrival as merely a pleasant side effect, or perhaps a "gift with purchase" based on their experience. She should appreciate his return if for no other reason than the fact that it provided a great excuse to justify her questionable mental state.

"'Paranoia' is just 'preparation' misspelled," Lisa added self-consciously, as if her elaboration with a touch of wry humor would make her look less damaged.

Jackson raised an eyebrow. "Give or take a few letters." He pursed his lips and nodded approvingly of her bizarre and slightly neurotic logic before buckling his seatbelt and carefully backing out of the driveway.

* * *

They had been driving the speed limit down the interstate for over an hour when Jackson finally broke the suffocating silence. "So, who's going to be the lucky person to discover the bullet holes and blood in your apartment?" He said it in the same voice he used when asking her if someone had broken her heart. He knew logically that his former associates would be on the scene long before anyone else, but he wanted to phrase it like this to keep his new cohort on her toes.

"I left a letter for my dad. He has a key."

"What you're saying is that we'll be on a very special edition of _Dateline _tonight?"

Lisa huffed to herself, exasperated at how her life had gone to hell in a matter of minutes and how she was now stuck playing Bonnie to Jackson's Clyde. "He'll probably find it tomorrow morning when I don't show up for work."

"What did you say in the letter?"

Lisa leaned her head back against the headrest and let herself gaze indifferently out the window. "I wrote it years ago. I just explained that I was alright, but I had to leave and I wanted to be left alone, and for no one to look for me."

Jackson nodded, smiling to himself. "That will make dear old Dad look for you even harder."

Lisa sighed. "You're probably right." Her face was starting to hurt now that she no longer had adrenaline to act as a natural pain-killer. There was a sting of pins and needles where Jackson had punched her near her cheekbone, and she could feel a small swell of pressure around her dry eyes. Her busted lip was tight and threatened to crack and bleed again. She licked her metallic-tasting lower lip, hoping that would help it. Jackson's only visible injury was a slightly puffy face and a dark bruise at the inside corner of his eye. Every now and then, she noticed he would open his mouth and twist his jaw. She would then hear a small pop of bones and cartilage snapping back into place.

The duo resumed the stuffy, oppressive stillness from earlier until Jackson pursued the matter once again. "You wrote that letter a long time ago," he prompted, urging her to address the issue.

Lisa rolled her head to the left to analyze Jackson closely for the first time since seeing him again. At the house, she didn't have a chance to observe him and take in every nuance of his appearance, but now she had time. The striking features that made him appear like a fallen angel had become more mature and perhaps even softer due to age. His face had filled out, taking the edge off his sharply defined cheekbones. His lips seemed slightly less full, but only because his cheeks balanced out with the rest of his features now. His inhumanly blue eyes were still the orbs of nightmares with their false beauty and vast coldness. Jackson's neck had become thicker, much like his chest and shoulders. He had gained a little weight, again probably due to age more than eating habits, but he wore it well. Last time, he had been slight in size, but seemingly solid enough. Looking at him now made Lisa recognize just how scrawny he actually had been previously. Even though Jackson was wearing a suit, she could see he was muscular and she knew first hand that he was stronger. His hair was a little longer than last time and she wondered if he ever changed it at all or if it was his constant. All in all, the psychotic bastard was even more attractive now than six years ago.

Jackson looked to his quiet passenger, wondering where her thoughts were after he had made a simple statement to her in conversation and she had yet to reply. "I did," she finally admitted with the deliberate poignancy of a major confession. Lisa faced straight forward, her head still reclining against the back of the seat. "I wanted to be prepared for anything."

"There was no way you could have ever guessed I'd come for you," Jackson skeptically maintained.

"I figured there was at least a 5% chance I'd see you again when you got out," Lisa revealed, "but I think my main motivation for writing it was for when I left." Jackson didn't push her further, but his lack of persistence convinced her to speak out of self-need or merely to fill the uncomfortable hush that had occupied the car. "There were days when I wanted to scream and run for it. No one understood and more than that, I don't think I wanted them to understand." Lisa glanced back at him briefly and snickered to herself. "And you don't understand either."

Jackson shook his head without ever looking away from the road. "I understand perfectly. You experienced one ordeal that you denied and repressed and then a second ordeal that you dealt with in a…very…_therapeutic _way, if I remember correctly." Jackson's voice was as bitter as a sour grape, but he remained in charge of his emotions. "You could never expect the world to understand the repercussions of the second event without revealing the full implications of the first event."

Lisa wanted to slam her head against the glass passenger window. They were having a civil conversation like they were old friends, and in under five minutes, the wretched son of a bitch had managed to infiltrate her cranium and explain the last six years to her better than she could explain it to herself—and in two sentences, no less. There was no way she was going to let that master manipulator play puppeteer over her. He was not getting in her psyche, period.

"All better! Thanks, Dr. Rippner! We should have done this sooner."

Jackson smiled broadly, proud that he had evoked something out of Lisa. "Why, Ms. Reisert, is that sarcasm I hear?"

"You ask too many questions," she spat at him. Jackson chuckled and his pleasure at her expense only added to her anger at him.

* * *

Sometime around midnight, Lisa awoke with a start. Her mouth was sticky, her eyes were dry, and her vision was blurry, but there was no mistaking the total darkness that surrounded her. It took her a few seconds to gather that she had accidentally fallen asleep in a car driven by Jackson Rippner. She looked over at him and he seemed tired but determined. The radio was playing at a low volume and he was listening intently to it.

"Where are we going?" she asked, ashamed that she had been reduced to playing the role of the question-asking damsel once again.

"We need to stop for the night. Rest. Get our bearings straight. We can't go at this without a game plan." Jackson paused. "I had a game plan before I met up with you," he resentfully disclosed.

"Which time?" Lisa prodded with mutual resentment.

Jackson turned his head toward her and the faint light from the car's dashboard panel illuminated the harsh glare he was giving her. "This time, of course." He reverted his attention to the black, vacant road ahead. "I hadn't planned to bring you into this. The plan was to stop by your place, get the info, and be on my merry way, but of course you had to go and put yourself in danger—"

"How?" Lisa barked. "By minding my own business in my own home, I forced people to spy on me and try to kill me?"

Jackson's jaw tensed and tightened. "I didn't plan to bring you along for the ride. It…just sorta…slipped out when I saw you again," he divulged, silently hoping that Lisa would not make any exaggerated assumptions regarding his reaction to seeing her again. Jackson wasn't sure why he volunteered to protect her, to take her with him, but it was said and done, and there was no going back now. She had ruined his life in ways that went beyond six years in prison. Lisa had corrupted his mind, changing the way he functioned in a mad world. There were days when he thought it was entirely possible that Lisa had broken him and he still hadn't concluded if that was a good thing or not.

Lisa was surprised, but also a little more fearful. A Jackson Rippner with a plan was a scary man, but a Jackson Rippner who was so out of his element that he was winging it was a man she had already met. That was the man she really did not like. When he became emotional, he was volatile in every sense of the word. She did not want to be in a situation where she was defenseless and possibly reliant only on him. She had packed her own gun and ammunition, plus the guns belonging to the three men who tried to kill her, but she didn't consider herself safe. Just a few days ago, she craved the thrill of danger. Now the thrill was too real. She still didn't feel alive and that overwhelmed her with an even stronger sense of despair. She was a broken woman and she wasn't sure if she wanted to be repaired or not.

Lisa couldn't help herself. "What happened to all of that wonderful 'male-driven, fact-based logic,' _Jack_?"

Jackson suddenly jerked the car off the road onto the gravel shoulder and slammed on the brakes. He shifted in his seat to completely face her. He flicked on the interior light on the ceiling between them and then stretched his arm out across the back of her seat. The unexpected bright light made Lisa flinch back and his arm around her seat made her feel small.

"I don't like you very much," Jackson sharply began. "We could have been buddies the first time around, but after you repeatedly stabbed me, pounded on my ass for fifteen minutes, and shot me, I just lost that lovin' feelin' toward you. I don't have to be a genius to know that I am not exactly your best friend in the world. But let's be honest: we need each other. We have a truce not to harm each other—"

"I never said I wouldn't harm you," Lisa muttered.

Jackson ignored her and continued: "—but I want to take it a step further." Lisa felt a warm flush rush across her body as terrifying images of what he could possibly say filled her imagination. "Let's be civil to each other. We don't have to add each other to our Christmas card lists, but we need to at least cut the crap and be _nice_ to each other," Jackson choked out. Lisa almost wanted to laugh at the face Jackson had unintentionally made at the taste of the word "nice" on his lips. "We don't know how long we're in this for and I don't want to have to constantly be at war with you. You might be the center of Daddy's universe, but you aren't the center of mine, as we've already established."

Jackson prided himself on his honesty at all times, but this one even he recognized as a blatant lie. Lisa had been a focal point of his stay in prison. He had heard her voice ridiculing him in his lowest moments and he had seen her smirk mocking him when he was at his most lost. Samuel had kept tabs on her for him and his sick intentions. He had been enraged with the Mob when they confiscated his file on Lisa hidden in his cell. Doctor Walker, Samuel, the Mob, and everyone else who had the nerve to speak to him on a personal level had all wanted to know about Lisa, but he had refused to share her with anyone outside the mental box he had her locked in for six years. Lisa had, in essence, kept him alive, and the real Lisa sitting in the passenger seat would shoot him if she ever figured out the vital role that she had played in his survival. The monster he had been before meeting Lisa was a credit to someone else, but the monster he was now was entirely of Lisa's creation.

Jackson didn't like the unwavering apathy on Lisa's face, so he tried a different approach. "Leese," he began softly, "I have more important things to concentrate on than constantly sparring with you and wondering where your head's at. And frankly, you have more important things too. We need to focus. This is bigger than us and we need to set aside all of this shit between us, at least until we finish the job." Jackson was pleased at himself for bringing it back to business again.

"Things are always about the job, aren't they? Nothing is ever about just you and me." The words came before Lisa could stop them.

Jackson's eyebrows knitted together and his nose crinkled. "What the hell does that mean?" he demanded. He heard what she said, but surely she did not mean it that way—or did she? Exactly how many conversations were they having here?

"It means you dragged me into your world to work with you and you can't _possibly_ expect us to get along like two peas in a pod. You're smart enough to know better."

Jackson was starting to comprehend it now. He nodded sympathetically and pulled his arm back as he once again sat facing forward, his wrist resting casually over the top of the steering wheel. "Be honest: was there ever a moment when you liked me?"

Lisa felt like she had been kicked in the gut. He had no right to demand information like that from her. "I don't see how that's—"

"Stop being melodramatic and just answer the question."

Lisa faced forward as well, looking straight ahead just as Jackson was doing. "Yes," she mumbled.

"When?"

"I don't see—"

"Stop being difficult."

"I'm not being—"

"Just answer the question, please."

Lisa exhaled. "At the airport and the start of the flight."

"We had chemistry then," he proclaimed boldly. "We clicked and there were just enough sparks. We fit one another well for at least a few minutes. It was real while it lasted, but it couldn't last forever." Jackson again faced Lisa and she tilted her head to just barely see him. "I'm not a bad guy, Lisa. I have—or I _had_—an unsavory job, but that doesn't make me a bad guy. I have a sense of humor. I laugh. It was easy between us at the airport, natural even, because I was just being me. I like watching television. I enjoy a good book. I keep up with the news and discuss current events. I love a good meal. I've even been known to pet a puppy in the park from time to time." Lisa scoffed at his false levity, but it had served its purpose by bringing the faintest semblance of a smile to her face as she mentally pictured Jackson scratching under the chin of some spoiled Black Scottie or snobby Chihuahua. "And I know that despite the crusty shell you've grown in order to adapt to your environment, you aren't a bad person either. We don't have to be friends or even like each other, but I'd just like to see us agree to focus on the goal here."

"You're not a good guy, despite what you're trying to convince both of us into believing. You say you are normal and do normal things, but I know better. I've seen too many of your personalities to gamble on one of them alone. My crusty shell is not the only adaptation for survival in this car right now. You could outlast a roach with your skills and determination," she theorized. "There's nothing you can't or wouldn't do to accomplish a job, even if that means guessing drinks at an airport lounge as you get your target drunk and weak."

It was Jackson's turn to exhale loudly. "See me however you want to, but the fact is I'm not playing this game you are determined to play. I want to do my job and I expect you to either contribute in our little endeavor or shut the hell up and stay out of my way."

"Fine," Lisa finally surrendered, her voice barely audible. "We have a truce," she agreed. To be honest, she was rather grateful that Jackson had proposed this ceasefire because it would afford her more time to ponder her situation in peace. It was too exhausting to constantly hate and begrudge Jackson when it was much simpler to ignore their personal issues until this unpleasant problem resolved itself.

Jackson nodded approvingly. "Superb. Now let's hit the road. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can call it a night. And—my name is 'Jackson,' _not _'Jack_._' You'd be wise to get it right."

* * *

Lisa's eyes were lightly closed, but her brain was semi-awake. She was in that open state of consciousness where most people could control their dreams. That state of sleep was a rare one, but Lisa found herself experiencing it more than ever as of late because of her inability to relax and actually rest in a full, deep slumber.

She recounted every scenario she had experienced with Keefe, Jackson, and even complete strangers, anyone who may have been associated with whatever it was that she allegedly knew, but the answers evaded her. None of this made sense. The only connection she had to Jackson's people was through Keefe and Jackson himself, and since Keefe's hotel room was no longer an issue, then Jackson was the obvious link.

What could she possibly know about Jackson other than that he had a few screws loose? Surely his people had received that memo already.

The car hit a bump on the road and Lisa's head bounced uncontrollably a few times before dropping back against the seat. She continued forming her slightly incoherent thoughts. There was still no answer. She knew _nothing_. There was _nothing_. Jackson was making a big deal out of this for _nothing_. They wanted her dead simply to clean up for all of their various mistakes six years ago: Jackson's meltdown, Lisa's rebellion, Keefe's survival.

But why had they waited six years?

Jackson had said this would take some time to figure out and he was right. Lisa let her mind go pleasantly blank in hope that sleep would fully take her. She would put this off until they were someplace safe, someplace where she could think without pressure or anxiety.

When the car stopped and Jackson shifted it into park, the vehicle rocked just enough to jilt her back into full awareness. "Where are we?" she groggily asked, looking at a series of identical cabins in the middle of nowhere and the only available light was the car's headlights. The sexy half-dressed blondes who were murdered in horror movies stayed at cabins with more illumination than these.

"The old Boy Scout campground," he answered. "I did my homework. They moved out of this one and into the new facility three years ago. Now this one is privately owned and used periodically for retreats and group camping excursions. It's too soon to get a hotel, so we're going to have to rough it. When we can find campgrounds or parks, we'll stay there. When we can't, we'll get cozy in the car or sleep under the stars in the woods." Jackson assessed her reaction, but she merely stared at him, unblinking and unresponsive. It was a start.

"Grab your stuff. You never know when you'll need it," he said as he got out of the car and retrieved two large bags of his own out of the trunk, one a camping backpack and the other a duffle bag not unlike the one he had used during his month on the road. Jackson aimed his flashlight at the cabins' signs, the narrow beam shining like an eerie beacon amid the total blackness of the area. Lisa quickly joined him, standing closer to him than she preferred simply because the darkness was so devoid of light that she was unnerved to stand alone and vulnerable. He was wise enough to hold back any sarcastic remarks, so she pretended in her little world that he was equally grateful for her companionship.

"This is it," he said, passing Lisa the flashlight. Jackson reached into his pocket and took out a lock pick. In less than six seconds flat, he had the door open and threw his stuff down on the floor. "Be right back," he told her, confiscating the flashlight and leaving Lisa in an even stronger darkness. She blindly searched for the chair she had seen when the flashlight had briefly lit the room, and when her hands discovered it, they clutched it with a white-knuckled hold. She never knew one could feel claustrophobic in the dark. It felt like there was no air and the walls that she knew were out there somewhere were moving in on her.

Genuine fear was starting to surge through Lisa's veins as she wondered where Jackson had gone. He could have left her to get a weapon to kill her, or perhaps to leave her there to die on her own in the woods, or perhaps to contact his people to have them—

Or to flip on the lights.

Lisa was relived as the electricity in the cabin flickered to life. The cabin had an open main room with three doors at the back, two bedrooms on opposing sides and a bathroom in the middle. She found Jackson standing in the doorway, his hand coming away from the light switch. He shut the door and locked it, and then dragged one of the chairs across the room to lean it against the door as a makeshift alarm. "I turned on the breaker for this cabin only, so don't be shy," he told her, claiming his bags and heading to the bedroom to the right. "I suggest we share a room. If something happens, I'm not running across the building to beg you to wake up."

Lisa wished she could have been more poised, but instead she remained motionless and submissive in the middle of the cabin, observing as Jackson took charge and told her how it was going to be. She couldn't argue, ask questions, or even make recommendations. She wasn't sure why she had taken the passive role to him, but that was something she'd address after getting a little sleep.

"I suggest we shower while we can," Jackson said, dropping his stuff to the floor on the left side of the bare-mattress bed.

Lisa brought her bags into the room and carefully set them on the floor to the right of the bed. "You go first," she offered, intending to use the shower when he was asleep for the night.

"Nope. We go together," Jackson insisted as he dug around his bag in search of something.

The lack of response from Lisa was deafening. "Don't get excited," he remarked evenly. "If there are two stalls, we shower at the same time. If there's one, we take turns. Until we figure out what you know, we're never alone. We can't risk them catching us off-guard and one of us alone is no match for whoever they send, but two of us together stand a chance. If you want to live, you'll get over it." Lisa didn't argue and that concerned Jackson. He was not used to an obedient Lisa who listened and followed instructions. "No objections?" he asked. Lisa shook her head, accepting his logic.

Jackson retrieved his small toiletry kit and a towel, and waited for Lisa to gather her own respective supplies. In the bathroom, there were four stalls, two for showers and two for toilets, and there were two sinks. Jackson had apparently picked the troop leaders' cabin for this reason because from what Lisa knew of the scouts from her brothers, the kids' cabins were usually crammed with bunk beds and there was a separate cabin for bathroom purposes.

Lisa was about to ask Jackson how this would work when she realized he was peeling off his clothing. He had already stripped off his jacket and shirt, and when his undershirt came off, she got a glimpse of his back. Dozens of scars ranging from straight faint lines to deep puckered circles polluted the pale skin of his back. The scars were fresh, obviously from prison. She had never considered what the sentence was like for him. He had seemed so larger than life, so forwardly evil, that she assumed he would have been able to handle himself or been altogether untouchable in the jailhouse hierarchy. The notion that he would have been the underdog battling for survival not unlike how she had fought him had never occurred to her. Additionally, the many patches of tight, bulky muscles that could be seen on Jackson's back were something she never imagined glimpsing either. It was obvious that he had taken up weight lifting in prison. His muscles, combined with the scars, made him a completely different person than the one she had expected to see. Jackson slipped off his pants and was down to a pair of dark blue boxers when he addressed Lisa.

"Like what you see?" he inquired with a cocky grin. It was incredible how he did that. One minute, he was as uncaring as a tree, while the next, he was astoundingly arrogant.

"Just studying your scar collection. I can only imagine what the other guy looks like," she calmly covered for herself.

Jackson removed his boxers, not concerned with what Lisa saw. If she wanted to see something, she was more than welcome to it. If she didn't, she had the freedom to look away whenever her delicate sensibilities kicked in. He said nothing as he stepped into the shower stall and under the stream of ice cold water. There were worse ordeals than experiencing a freezing shower next to an attractive woman, so this was not a big deal to him.

Lisa had never considered Jackson to be a sexually aggressive man, despite several half-attempts to play that role with her. If he had been one, he would have definitely taken advantage of the many opportunities he had with her on the Red Eye flight. Notably, he wouldn't have made an effort to distance himself from her rapist when he was manhandling her in the restroom or when he was listening with almost supportive attention as she discussed her feelings in the aftermath of her assault. And now, here they were, alone together.

Prison could change a man, but Jackson still seemed unconcerned with human sexuality as he disrobed down to total nakedness and appeared immune in any repercussions it may have for either one of them. He didn't care to ogle her or intimidate her, nor did he come across as stressed in his attempts to avoid looking at her or to hide himself from her. He joked about her response to him, but it was so lighthearted that she wondered if he even understood why people have so many inhibitions regarding nudity and sexuality, or if it was nothing more than a fact to him, a detail that could be treated as insignificant or used as a form of manipulation. Either way, sexually speaking, Lisa felt safer with Jackson than she did with any man—and that seemed wrong on so many levels for her given their history and opinions of one another. The most vicious of men were predators. The most ordinary of men were common perverts. Based solely on her experiences with him, she presumed Jackson was just a man who evidently didn't have the desire to waste his intellect or efforts on something so rudimentary and primitive.

Lisa quickly undressed. She piled her clothes on the floor and was careful to hide her bra and panties under her shirt. When she turned on the water, a high pitched squeal escaped her mouth before she even had a chance to truly process the coldness of the water.

"Hey, Leese, the water's a little cold," came Jackson's intentionally belated monotone warning.

* * *

Jackson was the first to step out of the shower, his towel wrapped around his waist. He made quick use of the sink before gathering up his blood-stained clothes and shoving them in a Wal-Mart bag he had saved in the bottom of his backpack. When he saw that Lisa's wardrobe was as disgusting as his own, he collected the garments and shoved them into the bag as well. He left her bra and panties on the bed for her since they were untouched by the blood of their mutual enemy. He tied the bag tightly and put it at the top of his backpack so he could throw it away when he came across an appropriate place.

The shower was still running, so Jackson decided to do some investigating. He knelt down next to Lisa's packed bags and unzipped them, careful to avoid shifting their position from the way she had left them. He saw the clothes she had packed and he bent down to sniff them. The material still smelled of laundry detergent and that suggested that Lisa had either lied to him about keeping them packed or, more likely, she had updated her bag with clean clothes and fresh supplies over the years. This was a pattern of obsessive behavior, and the last time he had faced off with Lisa, the only trait she had that was suggestive of obsessive behavior was her habit of watching old movies and cooking eggs at 3 a.m. That apparently had been the groundwork for her future compulsions. So far, he counted paranoia, poor anger management, anti-social behavior, and obsessive-compulsive tendencies among the various issues that Lisa had and would inevitably use to inconvenience him. This was not good. Sure, he was a sociopath, but he could function. If his one emotional break-down was enough to get him in trouble with Lisa and the Company, then her many problems would inevitably cause bumps along the road. Before he had the opportunity to violate her privacy further, the shower clicked off and Jackson quickly zipped up the bags.

After Lisa exited the shower, she too used the sink to finish cleaning up. When she prepared to gather her clothes, she was shocked to find nothing was there. She stormed into the next room to discover that only her bra and panties were there on her side of the bed.

"Trying them on?"

Jackson sat harmlessly on his side of the bed, now wearing only a pair of jeans and his towel draped around his neck. "Waiting for you to model them," he smoothly replied.

Lisa ignored him and walked to her side of the bed, her hands holding her towel firmly around her body. Jackson watched her out the corner of his eye as she passed him. Her legs were leaner and more muscular than last time. They were also whiter, implying that skirts and shorts were a thing of the past. Then again, her face and arms were the same pasty pallor as her legs. Her breasts seemed perky enough without a bra and he could not help imagining her without the towel, but he quickly filed that image aside with assistance from the memory of his cold shower minutes earlier. He instead pondered her hair. In her apartment, he had discerned it was longer, but seeing it wet and straight down her back showed him exactly how long it had gotten. The auburn locks now fell close to her waist. It was a blunt cut at the bottom rather than the layers that most women had for their long hair. Despite being dripping wet, it was starting to curl and Jackson was interested in the fact that her natural curls seemed tighter than the perfect, bouncy curls she had worn last time. The fact that women would straighten curly hair and then re-curl it their own way said everything that needed to be said about the frivolous, superficial gender that was rendered inferior to men solely because of their inability to use common sense logic and accept facts as legitimate.

Without looking back at her, Jackson spoke. "I hope you aren't particularly attached to the clothes you wore today. They're covered in blood and we can't clean that on the road. They're hitting the garbage the first chance we get—mine too," he added, letting her know she wasn't being singled out.

"That's fine," was Lisa's muffled answer. Jackson assumed she was putting on her shirt.

He got up and walked to the dresser in front of the bed. It was small and practical, but at least it had a mirror big enough for a single person. He began pulling his hair at various angles and tried to cut it based on what he was seeing in the mirror. It was easier when his hair was longer, but now that it was a little shorter than jaw length, it was hard for him to cut it himself and have it look presentable.

"Do you need help with that?" Lisa questioned from across the room. She sounded like a parent who was willing to help only if the child asked.

Jackson regarded her image in the mirror. "You would be willing to touch me voluntarily? Who are you and where's Lisa?"

"Funny," she commented, walking toward him. "Sit down," she ordered, and Jackson backed up until he could drop down onto the edge of the bed. Lisa reached for the scissors and Jackson put them in her hand, but he didn't let go. "What? Don't trust me?" she asked innocently as they both held the pair of scissors, their hands completely touching.

"Not remotely," he answered candidly. "I'm not sure if I am a fan of you coming at my head with a sharp object that could be used as a weapon."

"I don't go around attacking people and following them to their homes to kill them."

"Neither do I. In fact, let's think back for a second here. I didn't attack you. I'm pretty sure you stabbed _me _first," Jackson noted.

"After you threatened me and my father, and after you slammed me against a wall, and after you—"

Jackson's chuckles cut her off. "You _really_ need to get over that. It wasn't as bad as you make it sound."

"It wasn't?" The entire argument was happening with the two frozen in position, both holding the scissors together.

"No, it wasn't. You and your father would have been killed if you had warned anyone on the plane, so I had to knock you out. In the bathroom, I was motivating you, not hurting you. And you had to notice that I stopped when I saw—" Jackson clamped his mouth shut, an action that stunned himself as well as Lisa. It was completely out of character for him to ever hold back, much less for him to restrict himself once he was set on something. He was not sure what it took to set off Lisa these days, but he was inching close to what had been her trigger years ago. He did not want to go there with her while she held the scissors.

Lisa couldn't stop herself from glancing down at her dark maroon t-shirt. The cloth covered the scar across her chest, but it was still there. The scar wasn't as much a problem anymore as it once was, but Jackson was right. The bathroom incident made a complete turnaround when he learned about the scar. His "motivation" had changed to emotional manipulation in which he encouraged Lisa to do the right thing freely before he thanked her for her voluntary "quickie" as he left the bathroom, his chest puffed out like the roster who had found the unguarded henhouse. He had tried to differentiate himself from her violent attacker by planting himself on equal footing as Lisa, but he had also made it abundantly clear that he resented her not sharing it with him. He had felt like he was part of her life and that she owed him an explanation from the start. Since he was bringing up all of this old baggage, she wasn't sure how to handle him. Last time, his emotional reaction to her had activated his lunacy. This time, she wasn't sure what would trigger him. Whatever it was, she hoped she hadn't done it since, after all, he held the scissors.

Lisa huffed. "Do you want my help or not?"

Jackson peered up at her with his frigid eyes. She avoided looking into them, but he could see that she was as broken as a beat-down puppy. "I'd appreciate it," he professionally replied. Jackson gradually removed his hold from the scissors, angling his fingers to "accidentally" brush her hand as he let go. Her skin felt cold and dry.

Jackson proceeded to explain to Lisa how to cut his hair and as she trimmed, he elaborated on the tricks of the trade when it came to maintaining appearances on the road. He told her how he had changed his own appearance various times, starting with shaving his head in prison and ending with the last time he cut his hair before meeting up with her in Miami. He pointed out that little changes here and there were all that one needed to make. Many times, the authorities would look for someone by showing a picture to the public along with a mash-up of what the person would look like with a drastic alteration to his or her appearance. Without the radical transformation, someone could blend in better since people only ever noticed extremes. When Lisa was done, Jackson's hair was cut short in the back and long enough on top for him to comb it straight back in order to appear more dignified and prominent. He would easily pass for a professional on a business trip. His usual confidence helped give him an air of superiority that would keep most people from thinking too much about him. They would take him for granted as what they guessed he was and they would move on without a second thought.

He held out his hand for Lisa to return his scissors, but she was looking in the mirror at her hair. She avoided making eye contact with the strange woman standing in the glass. "I should cut my hair," she mumbled distractedly, lost in thought.

Jackson stood up and faced her. "Don't." His hand disobeyed the authority of his brain and reached out to touch her hair. His fingers trailed through the wet locks, gently pulling the strands forward to fall over her shoulder. Her hair was beautiful and years ago it had been part of her "Customer Service with a Smile" disguise. Now it was a secret that she held captive inside buns and braids, anything to keep its length concealed above her neck. Jackson doubted if anyone else knew how long her hair actually was. He could smell her apple-scented shampoo and the light red tones of her hair made the apple smell more convincing. He tried to remain expressionless when he noticed that Lisa had been staring at him with wide eyes that were either enraged or terrified, he wasn't sure which. "If you cut it, you won't be able to do much to change it later," he said, writing-off his clumsy behavior. "Didn't you listen to a word I just said?" he asked, referring to his earlier speech about how to disguise oneself when on the run.

Lisa overlooked his intimate yet creepy behavior. "Then little changes," she amended. She passed Jackson and positioned herself as close to the dresser as she could in order to cut her own hair. Jackson crawled in on his side of the bed. He hid a knife under the thin mattress. A few minutes later, Lisa spun around to face him. "Is this good enough?" she quizzed. She had cut very fine, thin bangs that hung down to her eyebrows. It was enough to alter her appearance if she chose to wear her bangs straight down or if she brushed them to the side.

"Perfect." Lisa was alarmed by Jackson's heavy eyelids and the way his voice lowered to say the seemingly harmless word that managed to send chills down her spine. It made her reconsider her theories about his sexuality and if he was as safe as she had believed. She felt unclean and exposed, but Lisa was positive she wasn't the one who was affecting Jackson. The man had been in prison for six years and any Lisa, from Reisert to the yellow cartoon Simpson, would have gotten a similar response. For some inexplicable reason, she interpreted Jackson as someone who was sexually repressed, perhaps even more so than she was. He was a man who was focused on one thing: the job. Whatever reaction he seemed to be having now was no doubt due to some poor attempt to manipulate her. He had tried seducing her once before and it had almost worked. This time, there was no way in hell it was going to work.

Lisa shut the bedroom door, flipped off the light, and sightlessly navigated her way to the bed. She stretched out on her side and felt to make sure the gun she had slid under the flimsy mattress when she had put on her clothes was still there. It was.

Neither moved a muscle for at least fifteen minutes. Jackson was lying on his back, his arm slung over his eyes. Lisa was curled tightly on her side facing away from Jackson, her left arm tucked under her head as a pillow.

"Are you awake?" she whispered.

Jackson took his time responding. "Yeah," he groaned exhaustedly.

"I have a question," she stated.

"And you're just dying to ask it."

"It's personal."

"Ask."

"You'll answer?"

"Yeah."

"Honestly?"

"Yes, I promise I'll answer it."

"No, I mean, will you answer honestly?"

Jackson smiled at his intentionally confusing wordplay. "Always do."

She exhaled softly, but he still heard her.

"Did you really murder your parents?"

There was a substantial stillness in the room as the weighty question hovered in the air.

"Because they named me Jackson Rippner?" He laughed. "I was hitting on a girl at a bar and I didn't have any charming lines, so I went for 'weird and pathetic' to get your attention since the 'shy, awkward, and polite' play had worked so well in line. 'Rippner' is an alias, nothing more."

Lisa felt lighter after hearing his response. "So Jackson's your real first name?"

"Yeah. It's lesson number one in the industry. Your first name is the only thing you have that's yours. It's your identity. Your last name is your family's name, not yours. It's a record, but that record is pointless and you lose it when you take on the occupation. It's your actions and reputation that count; thus, we only have first names."

"And that part about you killing your parents—"

"Was a joke. Don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't kill my parents for naming me Jackson."

Lisa sighed and a small smile helped the tension in her muscles to loosen. "That's good to know."

"And besides," he added, "I only murdered my father and it had absolutely nothing to do with my name. Goodnight, Leese," Jackson said, rolling over onto his side to go to sleep.

* * *

Lisa woke up around five in the morning. She looked over her shoulder to see if Jackson was still asleep, but he was gone. His bags were no longer on the floor next to his side of the bed and there was no trace that he had ever been there. She reached under the mattress to claim her gun. She shoved her feet into the running shoes that she had set down next to her bag the night before and stealthily made her way for the closed bedroom door.

She tightened her grip on the cold metal. Lisa flung open the door and aimed the gun inside the main room of the cabin.

"Morning," Jackson greeted her from her own laptop computer that he had commandeered from her bag. "I'm pleased to see you're vigilant," he complimented her. "I was starting to doubt you had any of that old fire left in you."

Lisa secured the gun and slid it in the back waistband of her pants. "You scared the shit out of me," was all she could say. "What about that whole 'we're never alone' spiel?"

Jackson regarded her with his full attention. "I was keeping guard. Did you sleep well?" he asked sinisterly.

If looks could kill, Jackson would have been dead instantly. "Off and on," she honestly replied. "'Story Time with Uncle Jackson' didn't keep me awake, if that's what you're asking." Lisa dragged a chair out and plopped into it, setting her gun on the table as she did so.

Jackson became solemn and suddenly he seemed to take the discussion seriously. "I didn't tell you that to freak you out," he assured her as he leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He had on a dark blue t-shirt and jeans. His newly cut hair hung forward in chunks where he had pushed it back repeatedly yet it kept falling in his face. He looked the polar opposite of the Manager she knew. "You asked me to answer honestly, so I did."

"You murdered your own father," Lisa recapped for him in the event that his father's death was somehow forgotten somewhere between _torment Lisa Reisert, pick up milk and bread_ on his lifelong to-do list. "Part of me can't see it, yet part of me can't _not _see it. Why did you do it?" she dared to ask.

Jackson gazed downward so much that his eyelids appeared shut. "Let's save that for a future edition of 'Story Time with Uncle Jackson,'" he said, borrowing her sarcastic phrase for himself. "Right now, we have more important things to worry about. We have to make a game plan."

"Okay." Lisa propped her elbow on the table and tiredly held up the side of her head with her open hand.

Jackson shut the laptop lid. "I always have a plan. Now that I have you, my plans will work out even better."

"Good for you."

"_Anyway_, I have bank accounts all over the world in case of an emergency. Ideally, the only emergency I would have ever had would be something so underground that I could have accessed my own accounts without worrying about the public eye, but because my circumstances are so well known, we're going to have to be creative. I was able to redirect some of my lesser accounts into one large account, but the larger ones are something that will we have to handle ourselves."

"No problem," Lisa declared, her face creasing into a facial shrug.

He dropped the other proverbial shoe: "In person."

"How are you going to do that? You said it yourself: everyone's looking for you."

"That's where you come in." Jackson leaned forward and folded his arms atop one another on the table. "When I set up my accounts, I built-in some contingency plans. The first was a co-worker of mine. He had no idea he was included on the account, but if I ever needed him, all I had to do was recruit him to do it for me."

"Are you sure he hasn't found out about the accounts?"

For the briefest of seconds, Lisa thought she saw sadness in Jackson's bluer-than-blue eyes. "Even if he did, it doesn't matter much now. He's dead."

"Oh," was Lisa's humble reply. Embarrassed, she tucked her hair behind her ears.

"The second was my wife."

Lisa sat up straight. "Your wife?" she repeated incredulously.

Jackson was entertained by Lisa's quick reaction to his admission, but he remained inexpressive and let her assume he hadn't heard her intriguing response. "My thinking was that if I ever needed access to the account, I could either hire or seduce a woman into playing the role and emptying out the account for me."

Lisa shook her head to herself. She should have known that there was no way Jackson could have been married. He was a disgusting, woman-hating bastard who considered women nothing more than mere tools to be used for his advantage. Lisa silently vowed to never let him manipulate her, no matter how smoothly he pulled the wool over her eyes. "You think of everything, don't you?"

"I didn't make it this far on my good looks," Jackson guaranteed her, his narcissistic persona coming out to play. "And don't worry, the best of my genius is still to come."

"So," Lisa directed the conversation back on track, "where are these accounts held?"

"That's the fun part. With the exception of the lesser accounts that I merged, they aren't in the US."

Lisa jumped up from the table, her hands on her hips. "What? How the hell are we supposed to get out of the country, not to mention go from country to country, with the entire world looking for us?"

"It's a lot easier than it sounds," Jackson promised. He opened the laptop. "I've been checking out some things this morning and it seems no one has reported you missing yet. That gives us some time. I'd like to get back out on the road as soon as possible so we can gas up the car and maybe pick up some food."

"And then?"

"And then we drive to New York and figure out how to get out of the country unnoticed."

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Lisa and Jackson were on the road again, sitting beside one another like strangers. They didn't exchange small talk or ideas for their plan. Jackson drove and Lisa watched the world pass by her window.

Lisa had been asleep when they had stopped for gas the night before, so she was curious as to how this would play out. Jackson did not pick just any gas station. He waited until he saw one that was outside of town and was a mom and pop store. There were few people around and the pumps were old enough to be unequipped with cameras. The only cameras were of the grainy black and white variety, and they were so far away that he would appear as a blob of gray on screen. Lisa was the one who went into the store to pay. She wore her sunglasses and made sure to pull as much of her hair over her shoulders as possible. Her bangs fell down a little behind her glasses. She paid in cash for their fuel, drinks, and snacks. Jackson had instructed her to be sweet and friendly rather than quiet and suspicious. If she endeared herself to the clerks, they would not think twice about something being wrong with her. If she pushed herself too hard on them, she would make herself entirely too memorable. Lisa walked that fine line as judiciously as she could.

* * *

Lisa was startled from her reverie when Jackson turned on the radio. "Sorry," he lamely apologized out of manners more than sincerity. He lowered the volume to a respectful level.

"Why do you keep doing that?"

"What?"

"Listening to the radio?"

"I've missed six years of the world. I have to play catch-up."

"I thought you kept up with the news."

"News is one thing, but putting a voice with the name 'Adele' or understanding what kind of idiotic nitwit finds _Jersey Shore_ to be an enlightening television habit is something I couldn't acquire by reading."

Jackson speeded up to pass a slow pick-up truck on the desolate back Florida highway. "I wouldn't have taken you for a pop culture buff," Lisa commented, daring to initiate a casual conversation.

"It comes with the job," Jackson rationalized. "For example, if you are my assignment and I sit next to you at a bar and you ask me if I saw last night's episode of _Lost_, I better have an answer that is more than obvious BS. My job requires—" Jackson stopped and bit down on his lip. "Required," he corrected, "me to be able to interact with anyone at any time. If I have to take you out on a date to the theater, I need to know that the soprano was actually an alto rather than a mezzo. If you ask me my favorite type of music, I have to be able to answer something that you'll like to give us common ground. Pop culture is as much a part of the job as customer service."

"_Lost_?" Lisa singled out of the explanation. "You _really_ need to catch up on your must-see TV." She didn't watch television much anymore, but she was not as out of touch from it as Jackson was.

She had never considered the nuances of his occupation. It had seemed so artificial, so based upon lies, that it hardly registered to Lisa as requiring actual preparation beforehand. When she had first met Jackson, his personality had been so immediately likeable and almost like her own that he was hard to resist. He knew how to be appropriately bumbling with his words, appealingly awkward in his approach technique, naturally polite, and sweetly good-humored. He was strong, noble, and stood up for what was right. He was a paperback hero with depth and dignity, but in reality, he was nothing except a paper doll— insubstantial and for appearances only. "You study more than pop culture for an assignment, don't you?"

Jackson gripped the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary. "I do."

"You watched me. For eight weeks, you watched me."

"I did."

Lisa sniffed. "What you saw through a window told you everything you needed to know about me." Jackson wasn't sure if she was asking a question or declaring a statement.

"It did."

She looked out the car window. The endless forest of pine trees on either side of the road had never been particularly fascinating to her. Having grown up in the South, Lisa was used to traveling through the woods to get anywhere. She was immune to the beauty of nature as seen from a highway, but the pines had caught her attention now. Every so often, she would spot one in line by the road that was curved into an unnatural shape by the repeated and enduring strong winds of a hurricane. It was amazing to her how trees, as lifeless as they were considered by 99% of the world, would struggle for survival against the odds in nature rather than surrender to death and destruction.

"I saw a beautiful girl who was lonely and broken," Jackson elaborated, bringing her back into the present. "She put on a mask every day and gave everyone what they wanted and then some, but she went home alone and celebrated her misery with an occasional drink with people who didn't even know her full name. She was the apple of her father's eye yet she never confided in him beyond a little kid telling mom that school was 'fine.'"

"That's all? You didn't have any other information?"

Jackson shook his head. "I had a basic file on you and your father, but what I learned about you and your personality and personal life came from what I saw. I didn't figure out how to interact with you until I heard you talking to the old lady in line. You know, I still love how you stood up to the asshole who was giving everyone grief." Jackson snickered at the fond memory.

Lisa grinned at the memory as well. She was rather proud of herself for applying her skills in that situation. "Since I was hired at the hotel, my motto has always been: 'There are no customers who are assholes. Only customers with special needs,'" she told Jackson, earning another chuckle from him. "You know, it has always bothered me how much you can act like my father sometimes."

Jackson's eyebrows shot upward. He had not expected this comment, but after hearing it, it did explain a lot about how Lisa had initially reacted to him at the airport. The remark was a raw and intimate admission, and with such honesty came power. Lisa had just given him something he could use against her if he so desired, and he was pretty sure Lisa was aware of that detail as well. "Oh?"

Lisa nodded. "Yeah. Calling me Leese without hesitation or second thought, the apparent coincidence of repeatedly asking me if I was alright, being more concerned with your work than…than with how I feel."

"Don't tell me you have daddy issues… I thought you and Dad were tight."

"We are," Lisa confirmed. "But he is not without his flaws. He has definitely overcompensated in the last ten years for being away so much when I was a kid. My point is that it's amazing how well you were able to connect with me for a guy who claims he only watched me through a window."

"It's not a claim. It's the truth. The only 'apparent' coincidence in any of this was our seating arrangement. Everything else was in fact coincidental—asking if you were okay, calling you 'Leese.' Though there was one thing I didn't know."

The conversation stopped and neither pursued another round of discussion for a little while. Jackson changed radio stations every ten minutes or so to listen to different genres. He finally broke the silence to ask for Lisa's assistance in naming the tunes. She named all the artists and songs that she knew, but she was at a loss for most of them herself.

"I wonder if someone has reported my violent abduction at gunpoint by wanted fugitive Jackson Rippner yet," Lisa pondered aloud during the middle of a Florence + the Machine song.

"I'm sure your boyfriend is with dear ole Dad right now, and both of them are gleefully cleaning their guns."

"Boyfriend?" Lisa exclaimed with utter bewilderment. That explained his mysterious curiosity at the start of their trip over who would report her missing.

"Josh is your boyfriend, right?" Jackson put on his best nonchalant mannerisms. Samuel had not mentioned Josh in any of his reports about Lisa and Jackson had been annoyed to discover the man's existence in her life. Reading about it online had seemed so impersonal and disingenuous, and Jackson almost didn't believe it at first. For years, he had expected a man would eventually enter Lisa's life, so he wasn't exactly surprised. He moved his research from news articles to Josh's Facebook and Twitter accounts. The man didn't advertise his life as openly as most people, suggesting his ego was smaller than that of the average narcissistic blogger. Lisa didn't have a Facebook or Twitter account (not that it shocked him), so Jackson had to go back to the paparazzi photos as his primary form of research. He had stared at a dozen pictures of Lisa and Josh for several minutes at a time before determining that Josh was nothing more than a placeholder in Lisa's life. He served a function and Lisa took advantage of that. Jackson couldn't help seeing a bit of himself in the way she used an innocent bystander and seeing himself in her bothered him more than it should have.

"How do you know about Josh?" Lisa demanded, looking straight at Jackson who ignored her in favor of focusing ahead on the road.

"When I was researching on your computer, I Googled you—we are still Googling now, right? We're not Yahooing again or something else?" he abruptly asked as his own train of thought derailed.

Lisa made a face. "People Binged for about a week before they went back to Googling," she clarified. "Now let's get back to you researching me online after you took me—"

"I didn't take you," he corrected. "I stole you, just like I said I would." Lisa felt a familiar sense of unwelcomed warmth and nausea return. When Jackson redirected his words in a more personal route, Lisa always felt like she was being violated. She knew how Jackson operated with the spying, manipulation, and domination. He always had to be over her, holding her down at his mercy and control. His vow to steal her had lurked in the back of her head for six years. He had said it with such pride and approval that it suggested he wanted her for her business skills, yet he clearly wasn't the partner type. Jackson was a lone wolf and if he wanted to steal someone, it was for his own selfish purposes, whatever they may be. Lisa preferred not to think in that direction.

"Back to Josh…"

Jackson's jaw clinched. "I Googled you and some paparazzi photos of you and Joshua Ryan came up. I'm happy for you, Leese. It's time you found someone you can trust and be yourself with." The warmth that she had sensed seconds earlier at Jackson's attempt to play a mind game on her disappeared and was replaced by a cold chill up her spine. Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them back so Jackson wouldn't see. Josh was her friend, but she never let herself trust him. Lisa had isolated herself away from so many people that it felt impossible to trust anyone again. Try as they may, her family and what few friends she had could not understand her as she appeared on the outside or the inside, yet Jackson Rippner had spent fewer than 24 hours with her and had already given her more diagnoses than even her own therapist had in months.

"We're not together. We never were. We're just friends," Lisa insisted. She reached up and fingered her bangs out of her face and pushed her sunglasses further back on her nose. Jackson assumed this information already and he was baiting her to admit it, and Lisa didn't care that she was being baited. For some reason, she felt she owed Jackson the truth on this matter and that truth had to come from her own mouth.

Jackson knew Josh was nothing to Lisa. He could tell from the pictures that she was vacant and closed-off. He wasn't even sure why he had brought up Josh. Part of him suspected that he wanted to get caught "stalking her" while the other part of him just wanted to point out how blatantly miserable she was. Jackson still had not come to any conclusions about his feelings toward Lisa, but he was certain that he wanted her to explore her desolation for the goal of either seeing her suffer or for being there for her when she suffered. Whatever Lisa felt, Jackson believed he had the right to possess it. This version of Lisa, after all, was the partial result of his actions. He had stolen her into the darkness with him.

Jackson savored the darkness in life because only amid darkness could one truly recognize light.

* * *

**TBC…**


	6. Ch 5: Scavengers and Hunters

**Disclaimer:** The stunt depicted in this chapter is for fictional entertainment purposes only. Please do not attempt it or treat it as an accurate representation of how to perform the stunt. The author is a writer, not a stunt coordinator, and is therefore released of liability in all forms. Please do not try this or anything else you read on the web. Be safe and enjoy the fan fiction.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Scavengers and Hunters**

* * *

**August, 2011**

After four weeks of staying in abandoned campgrounds, remotely located parks, and even in the car on four uniquely uncomfortable and never-to-be-spoken-of-again occasions, Lisa and Jackson were in New York. They had stopped several times during the slow-paced trip to abandon their vehicle in exchange for another. Thanks to the poor economy, many Americans were selling their cars in their own front yards for relatively reasonable prices. The duo's strategy involved Lisa making the purchase when she just happened by, saw the respective car for sale, and made her companion stop (and stay in the car where he would remain, by completely unsuspicious and absolutely inconspicuous coincidence, out of sight). When news never broke that Lisa was missing, Jackson became apprehensive and insisted that they change their technique. The new method was for them to make the deal over the phone and Lisa, now with long blonde hair, would pick up the car early in the morning or late in the evening when the light was poor because her supposed work hours prevented her from doing it during a sensible time.

Lisa argued that her father had apparently respected her wishes to be left alone and did not report her missing because of that. Jackson wanted to know which Joe Reisert Lisa knew because the one he had met would have called everyone from the city police to God Almighty Himself and anyone in between. Lisa would have agreed with him years ago, but she knew her father and the man had changed. He trusted Lisa now more than before and he let her do what she needed to do rather than what he thought was right for her. If Joe believed Lisa needed time to herself, he would allow it. Jackson didn't buy it and instead made them both stay on alert—which resulted in Lisa's now dyed blonde hair.

Jackson had grown a beard that he kept neatly trimmed and Lisa wasn't terribly fond of it. Never in a million years would she admit to it, but she liked seeing all of his face. He was attractive and there was no avoiding it, but on top of that, she could read him better without the concealment. Her face was raw and exposed, and it was unfair that his wasn't as well.

The two were getting along quite well. Sarcasm was a common form of humor in the car as they took "friendly" jabs at one another. After the first 48 hours, they had moved beyond their initial digging up of past dirt. They had found a groove that worked for them, and it consisted of avoidance and maintaining a surface level relationship.

When it was Lisa's turn to drive, Jackson would frequently sleep in the passenger seat. Every so often, his head would groggily roll over to face her and she was positive that behind his sunglasses, his eagle eyes were open and trained on her. She could feel it. It gave her the same unnerved feeling as when he would leer at her while they cleaned up and called it a night. He tried to hide it, but she knew better as she watched the watcher. It wasn't sexual or predatory, but it was definitely offsetting. It was like he was studying her in her natural habitat so he could prepare a report and publish his findings. This advantage over her was not one she wanted him to have.

Jackson concluded that Lisa was the world's most unlucky repeat victim whose misfortune followed her like her own shadow. He had no desire in the world to protect her or keep her alive, but he had every intention of doing so and it aggravated him to have such a weakness. If it was for his own self-interests or for her well-being, he didn't know. He wanted to see her suffer, yet he wanted to save her from her own suffering. Lisa was a cruel woman who intentionally taunted him by flaunting her status as a powerless target in his face, but he knew she was a spider seeking to trap him. She could more than defend herself, yet she stood by passively as he took charge and led her like a child. Her current behavior was everything he despised in women. He wanted to tell her to suck it up and man up, to stand beside him as an equal, but he constantly humored her vulnerability.

* * *

Lisa's jaw dropped when Jackson told her they were going to be staying somewhere other than the great outdoors or a campground—specifically at Trump International Hotel and Tower next to Central Park. She was in the hotel industry, so she knew that her Lux Atlantic was one of the finest in the nation. However, Trump's humble little chateau in the sky made her hotel look like the Holiday Inn. To keep from appearing like she was out of her league, she made a remark about how Jackson should feel at home near the other thugs and criminals in Central Park. He retaliated with a dig about preferring his prey to be a challenge that was armed and dangerous.

They checked into their room. It was one of the "small" rooms and it had cost them more money than they should have spent. Until this point, Lisa had never questioned Jackson's finances. He had a plan for everything and she assumed he had a practical amount of money for what they were attempting to do, even if this room was not what she would classify as "practical."

Lisa unceremoniously dumped her bags on the floor on her side of the bed and sat down in the lush upholstered chair by the floor to ceiling window. The Central Park view was breathtaking. Jackson had quietly set his bags on the floor and like the predator he was, stealthily slipped up behind Lisa with his hands in the pockets of his gray trousers. "Beautiful view," he commented. Lisa marveled how someone who was so desensitized to the world, so dead in the heart and soul, could claim to appreciate beauty yet comment on it just as ordinarily as he would have said "pass the salt."

"How can you afford this?" Lisa asked unexpectedly. Jackson, in perfect professional form, inched over to the chair across from her and gracefully sat down, unbuttoning his gray jacket as he did so. Since arriving in New York, he had gotten more into character. Poise had returned to his movements, dignity had returned to his body language, and status had returned to his clothes. He even had the slightest trace of snootiness in his eyes as he held his head just a little higher. "We haven't even gotten into your accounts yet."

Jackson was not surprised by her question, but he did seem astounded that she was just now asking it. He hadn't shared with her any information about the two accounts he had already accessed before reuniting with her. "My spending habits while on a job were covered by a basic budget set by my Company. If I bought you a drink—"

"—the Company would foot the bill," she supplied.

"Exactly. When a job was successfully completed, I received my payment. After the first few jobs, my income became more supplementary than anything else, so I started investing for my future. I purchased safe houses around the world. I set up accounts in various countries, ranging in different amounts. I basically created the opportunity for me to disappear should the need arise. And ironically after meeting you, the need arose," he said with a false grin over his animosity.

Lisa crossed her arms over her chest. "So your 'back-up plan' is actually falling back on your secret millions?"

"I wouldn't say _millions_," Jackson lamented. "No more than around two million in liquid assets," he dismissed despite fitting the most literal definition of "millionaire," as in one who is in possession of a million or more. Lisa almost choked at Jackson's "impoverished" lifestyle which seemed to disappoint him. "But remember, most of my money is locked up in physical structures and other investments, and I'm reluctant to sell them since I don't know what the future holds. All in all, though, I'm probably worth about twenty million," he told her with a disinterested shrug.

Lisa leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. She buried her face in her palms, her long blonde hair cascading down. She let the information sink in for a minute before sitting up again. Jackson was a millionaire. She had worked an honest job all her life and Jackson was a millionaire. Do evil and prosper. Work hard and struggle. Life made such perfect sense.

"Okay," she said, trying not to dwell on being partners in crime with Richie Rich. "So after we get the money, then what?"

"Then we go to a safe house and lay low until we solve this thing."

"For how long?"

"Until we solve it, or we're killed, or we kill each other. I can see this heading in any number of directions," he bluntly admitted. "We won't be able to work, so money will be tight. A million sounds like a lot, but when nothing else is coming in, it can go pretty fast. We'll have to have a fixed budget. Any more questions?"

Lisa stole a glance at her watch. It was a quarter till one in the afternoon. "Just one," she said, playing along. "Can I have the bathtub first?"

* * *

Lisa retreated to the bathroom with her small toiletry bag, shut the door, and locked it. She peeled off her disgusting blue jeans and purple button-up blouse. She had washed her clothes in the shower and in ponds when she had the time, but they were far from clean. Between the lack of personally-approved sanitation and repeatedly wearing the same thing over and over, she was sick of everything she had carried with her and was ready to have a burn party.

She tossed her tank top, bra, and panties on the floor before she realized she had yet to even fill the luxurious marble tub. Lisa considered the provided soaps and oils before picking the lavender rose scented bubble bath. She was about to fill the tub with hot water when a hard knock on the door startled her. Her reaction was to say nothing because she never knew who was on the other side. "Hey, I'm heading out for a while," Jackson announced.

Lisa snatched up a towel and covered herself. Jackson couldn't see her through the solid door, but even his voice seemed like an intimate intrusion. "Will you be okay by yourself?" he asked. Lisa was proud of him. He almost seemed like he could have been at least 10% sincere. He was truly growing as a person.

"Fine. When will you be back?"

There was a few moments' hesitation before Jackson responded. She could tell he was tempted to double check her "fine" with an "are you sure?" but he didn't. "About 4, maybe 4:30." Another beat passed. "If I'm not back by tomorrow—"

Lisa swallowed hard. Four weeks ago, the thought of being stuck with Jackson had seemed like some sort of punishment worthy of Hades, but now the thought of being without him made her feel oddly alone and exposed. "I can take care of myself," she assured him and herself in the process.

"Right," he drawled out warily.

And then he was gone. Lisa heard the hotel door shut. She hurriedly sneaked out of the bathroom so she could put the "Do Not Disturb" sign around the doorknob and check the locks before returning to her personal spa day.

The water occupied the tub around her, but Lisa was immune to the pleasures of the sparkling bubbles and their exotic, relaxing fragrance. All she could think about was Jackson and where he could be going, what he could be doing, why he could be doing it, and how it could impact her. Countless conspiracy theories frolicked through her head, but none of them made sense. He was a wanted fugitive, the target of both his own employers as well as various branches of law enforcement. He believed he could blend in well enough now, but surely he did not think he would be able to just go anywhere and do anything he wanted without risk.

Lisa closed her eyes and reclined in the tub. She would worry about survival later.

* * *

Jackson was parked outside of a ministorage unit in Queens. As with all the places he chose to do business with when on the run, this one was family-owned and had minimal security. This particular neighborhood mainly consisted of elderly couples and the crime rate was as close to minimal as possible in New York.

He had never had the chance to fully examine Lisa's travel bags when they were on the road and this was as good a time as any. After thoroughly searching through her backpack and messenger bag twice, he saw nothing but her clothes and a spare pair of shoes. The Lisa he had known would have packed a picture of her family or some knickknack that gave her warm and fuzzy feelings of home, but none of that was present. Jackson zipped it up with a disappointed huff. He quickly swapped their bags for a set of luggage from the unit. It was far nicer than their cheap totes and it would help them get through security easier since they would fully look the part they were playing. Jackson had been nervous that they wouldn't be able to check in at the hotel since Lisa's attire had clearly set her apart from the other guests. He was a seasoned veteran and had been prepared to dress at several socio-economic levels. She was a novice and had no clue that she may have to portray a different character.

Jackson took all of their weapons, his knives and her guns, and put them in the storage unit after he cleaned every inch of them in case they ended up being stolen from the unit. They would not be able to bring them on the plane, so it made sense to hide them in a relatively secure location until they could reclaim them.

Besides, as long as the plane had ink pens on it, Lisa would be fine.

* * *

Lisa wrapped herself in a fluffy white bathrobe and slid her feet into the matching slippers. It felt wonderful to be fully clean and in a dirt-free place without trees and insects, and it felt even more incredible to be alone. She had almost forgotten what privacy was.

Despite the "Do Not Disturb" sign, there was a knock at the door and Lisa froze. A few seconds later, the knock repeated. She rushed to her backpack next to the bed to get her gun, but the backpack and messenger bag were gone, as was her laptop.

She quickly scanned the room for something that could be used as a weapon, but nothing seemed to fit her immediate requirements. She ran back to the door and peeked through the peephole. A young man dressed in a hotel uniform stood there with a room service tray. Lisa knew that anyone could acquire a uniform and impersonate a staff member, but she had to do something.

"Who is it?" she asked, hoping her voice did not sound as tense as she felt. She tucked her wet hair behind her ears and scrutinized him again through the peep hole.

"Room Service," the young man said. He looked perfectly ordinary. He had brown hair and brown eyes, and he appeared to have the faintest indication of a battle with acne.

"I didn't order room service."

"Your husband did, Mrs. Wilson," the man replied. He was starting to get annoyed at Lisa's avoidance.

Lisa wasn't sure what to say. Admit that "Mr. Wilson" wasn't there at the moment and it must have been an error? Flat out turn him down without explanation? Open the door and hope for the best? "Mr. Wilson said—" the boy referred to a piece of paper that he had stuffed in his pocket and read aloud with poor public speaking skills—"that 'you can still pick the Sea Breeze if you change your mind.'"

Lisa grinded her teeth together. There was only one man arrogant enough to send her a meal with that code phrase. She surrendered and opened the door. The young man looked relieved when he finally had the chance to push in the silver cart.

"I'm afraid I don't have any cash on me right now for a tip," Lisa apologized as she protectively held shut her already securely tied robe.

"It's alright, ma'am. Mr. Wilson has already seen to it. Enjoy your meal," he said, nodding and hastening out of the room.

Lisa locked the door. She walked a full circle around the cart, eyeing it for surveillance equipment, explosives, or any other surprises, but she saw none. She repeated the process as she inspected the assorted covered trays. There was a small sealed envelope next to a red rose. Assumptions began to combat each other for dominance in her mind as she thought she knew what was happening. She opened the envelope and saw what she had come to recognize in the last four weeks as Jackson's handwriting. His writing was small and uneven, but the unevenness had a predictable pattern to it. His lines, however, were straight enough that they could have been written using a ruler. _Consider this part of the truce, a reward for four weeks of good behavior. _Only a man who had just gotten out of prison could say something like that._ Please enjoy the hotel and the meal. No strings or games attached, I swear._

There was no signature, not that one was necessary. This could have almost qualified as being considerate if it wasn't for Jackson stealing her bags and her guns.

She held on to the note as she lifted the trays' lids to see what probably poisoned food awaited her.

* * *

Lisa, still wearing her bathrobe, had fallen asleep in the middle of the bed. The door loudly opened, jarring her from her sleep. When she sat up in bed, she was speechless at the sight of the bellhop pushing in a cart full of luggage, store bags and boxes, and garment bags that weren't theirs.

"I'm sorry, but that's—"

Then she saw Jackson entering the room behind the bellhop, a smug smirk on his face and several shopping bags from downstairs in his hands.

After the bellhop finished unloading the goods, Jackson exchanged a few words with him and gave him a tip that must have been quite ample based on the way the young man's face lit up.

"Where are my bags? The guns?" Lisa demanded the second the door shut. Jackson secured the door and approached the bed.

"Safe. We couldn't take it with us on the plane."

"And you couldn't tell me what you were doing because?"

Jackson glared at her as if she had two heads. "You didn't need to know. You enjoyed your bath?" he asked, changing the subject at his own whim.

Lisa sighed, knowing she had lost this round. "Yeah." She held back all the sarcasm, all the anger, and all the resentment that she felt building inside. "Thank you," she replied as sincerely as she could to the man who tried to kill her six years prior.

"Happy anniversary," he told her as he took off his gray jacket.

Lisa snorted, but then she deduced that contrary to his wry and blasé delivery of the line, he was actually being serious. "Wait—_what_?"

"August 19, 2005. We met six years ago today. Oh, honey," he breathed as he flopped onto the bed next to where she still lay in the center, "doesn't it seem just like yesterday that you stabbed me in the throat and I threw you down the stairs?"

Lisa shuffled back onto her own side of the bed and sat against the headboard while Jackson propped himself on an elbow to gaze upward at her.

"Leave it to you to remember something like that. You're sick," Lisa spat at him.

"I may be sick," Jackson agreed, "but at least I'm not so emotionally constipated that I can't recall the date that changed my life forever." Lisa scowled at him and hoped he wasn't going to direct this discussion where she assumed he was. And to think that they were getting along so well.

It had taken six years of his life for him to comprehend what had happened with Lisa, much less to be able to admit it. Jackson compelled himself to go into the deep place where he hid all of his best secrets and truths. "You were the first assignment that I ever screwed up. My record was flawless until you. That's something I'll never forget."

Jackson rolled flat onto his back and he folded his hands across his torso close to where one of the bullets had lodged in his body six years ago. "You were the only person who not only made me lose sight of my agenda, but you caused me to react emotionally. I never have emotions. That's what made me so perfect at my job. All my life, I was a robot that my customers could rely on for a job that was polished to a shine and not just merely well done. I crashed because of you." His words were calculating and Lisa dreaded the underlying meaning that his coding did not communicate. His obsession for her and whatever that inspired it had changed his life forever, and now she was trapped with this man as her only companion in a web of danger.

She compartmentalized her own emotions in a way that would earn Jackson's seal of approval and returned her thoughts to the blunt confession that was stretched out before them. "But you've rebooted," Lisa commented, continuing his computer metaphor.

"I have, but even after recovering from a crash, a computer just isn't ever the same," he said, angling his head to look up at her. "The first crash is the shocker, but the impending second crash is always just a matter of time." Lisa turned away. "What about you?" he prompted, not willing to let her escape this little heart-to-heart. She ignored him. "What happened to you six years ago? What's that one thing that I did to you?" Lisa continued to stare off blankly as if he had never even spoken aloud. "I told you mine," he childishly mocked with a sly grin.

She grumbled a few incoherent words to herself, begrudging how he coerced her into this game of Truth or Dare, minus the Dare element. "You proved to me that I wasn't an honest person after all." Her voice sounded a thousand miles away and her mind wasn't even connected to her mouth as she spoke the admission. She could still sense his warm hands painfully jerking her around by the jaw and face. She could feel herself collide with the hard, cold airplane bathroom wall. She could see Jackson's large blue eyes at point blank range with her own as he reprimanded her for "lying" to him during the eight weeks he stalked her.

"I learned that I can't trust anyone, not even myself. I lied to myself and those I love after…" she faltered before continuing, "after the parking lot, and it took a freak like you to prove it to me." Lisa at last had the nerve to look down at him, and when she did, she saw his expression was neutral. "No offense," she added unconcernedly.

"'Freak' is one of the nicer pet names I've had, so I'll take it," he said stoically.

Lisa inhaled an unexpected but familiar scent once and then again. "What's that smell?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"A famous New York pizza, of course." Lisa had not seen him carrying it in, so it must have been on the cart with the luggage. "Since you had room service, I had to find something to eat too."

Lisa glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost 5 p.m. She peered down at him. It was sad that she felt this comfortable with her would-be murderer, a man who could flip out at any given moment. Despite all of the history there, contrary to the uneasy confessions they had just exchanged, they were all they had and they were the only two who could understand one another. Fate was more than cruel; it was ironic.

"I didn't eat the room service," she shyly admitted.

"I haven't eaten the pizza yet," he said, picking up her train of thought.

"Buffet and a movie?"

"I'll get the plates."

* * *

They spread the food out between them while they lay on their respective sides of the bed. Lisa commandeered control of the large flat screen television remote because Jackson's movie picking judgment was compromised by being away from the world for six years. She wore a pair of pink pajamas that Jackson had picked up for her at a shop downstairs and he had on pajama bottoms with his white undershirt. He sipped the offending Bay Breeze while Lisa held her beloved Sea Breeze in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other.

She saw that the silent film version of _The Phantom of the Opera_ was coming on after _Slumdog Millionaire_, so she scrolled down toward it. The last thing Jackson wanted to watch was a classic 1920's film that he had already seen. The plot of a bad man who seeks to conquer the innocent object of his unrequited affections had been done to death. "Wait," Jackson barely choked out through a mouthful of Bay Breeze. "Stop there," he said more clearly after he swallowed the oversized sip.

"No," Lisa said flatly.

"I haven't seen a movie in years and I need to see the essential movies of the last six years. Like it or not, this is one of them. It may not be a pretty job, but I have to do it."

Lisa groaned. "It's just _Twilight _for God's sake! And you're not a thirteen-year-old girl!"

"And everyone has seen that movie, from infant babies to their dead grandmothers. No offense," he added as an afterthought, recalling poor earthy and wild Grandma Henrietta. He shoved a ridiculously large bite of pizza in his mouth while Lisa nibbled at one of the strawberries from the room service tray.

The two watched the first _Twilight _movie in its entirety and both made the expected sarcastic commentaries throughout it. "It's not _that_ bad," was Jackson's final assessment. He was not enthusiastic about the film, but he didn't completely hate it without reason.

Lisa had eaten three slices of pizza, but she had picked off the pepperoni and mushrooms, and left the crusts on the plate. Those were her favorite parts of any pizza and she liked to save them to eat after she had finished the rest.

"For torturing terrorists or for brainwashing women into submission?"

Jackson snickered and picked up one of the few strawberries Lisa had left for him. "It had a modern art school, indy film vibe that I like. Well directed. Mediocre acting except for the guy with the wild hair."

"So," Lisa began as she folded her legs in front of her and sat up straight. "Are you, like, Team Edward or Team Jacob?" she asked flippantly as she twisted her hair around her finger.

Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, Jackson shook his head at her. "That's the scariest thing I've ever seen you do and I've seen you do scary quite well before." He retrieved a roll from the room service tray. "Team Edward, of course," he answered belatedly, seemingly without consideration.

"I would have taken you for the guy who identifies with the bad boy, the wolf guy," Lisa guessed, her tone a little more serious.

"Nah. I find it easier to relate to the guy who equally loves the girl as much as he wants to kill her, all while hiding behind a polite appearance."

The night had been going well until Jackson activated his creepy personality. Lisa disregarded his behavior and reverted back to her place of ignorance being bliss. She picked up the remote and scanned through the guide for another major film. "Oh, this is a biggie," she said, putting the television on the remake of _Star Trek_. "_Star Trek_ became popular that year. Even non-nerds came out for this one. I didn't see it." Jackson figured that went without saying, but Lisa had stated it anyway as if it had been a major revelation. He didn't take her for a "dinner and a movie" type girl.

He nodded approvingly and they watched the film. The movie ended at 9:30 and both were still going strong. She tried to get him to watch _The Dark Knight_, but he declined declaring that regardless of Heath Ledgers' phenomenal acting, the Joker was a villain who was too over the top, unlike the villains of the first film, who were just sinister enough. They instead opted for _Iron Man_, which Jackson enjoyed the most of any of the night's movies. He liked the idea of an unapologetic alcoholic and womanizer doing good because it was his responsibility and self-appointed job, not because he wanted to right the wrongs of his personal life. He was a take charge character who ultimately grew up and took charge.

At midnight, Jackson insisted they view the lesser known film _Let Me In_, the American version of a vampire novel and movie called _Let the Right One In_. Lisa had not wanted to watch it because it seemed a little too frightening (and she presently had enough frightening things in her life), but she agreed anyway after Jackson had synopsized it as being like _Twilight_, but with two prepubescent kids, bloodshed and murder, and no sparkling. It was a book he had discovered in prison and he liked it. It was a love story, not a romance, and like all good love stories, it was full of scary things in the dark that could destroy any person who chose to go at life alone. The book and the movie proved that a love which is too terrifying to be in and too impossible to be without was the only love that could make a person feel alive and want to fight to see another day.

About twenty minutes into the show, Lisa fell asleep on her side, her arm habitually underneath her pillow as if to hold it to her head as a proverbial security blanket. Jackson was propped up against his own pillows and the headboard when he noticed how still she had gotten and that her eyes were closed. Normally when they slept, they could not see one another for the lack of light, but thanks to the hotel, they were able to have a little illumination on this particular night. Light was as much of a luxury as the bathtub and the television.

Jackson lowered the volume of the movie to keep from disturbing her, but he realized he was looking more and more toward her sleeping form rather than the screen. Her blonde hair was almost completely in her face and it practically screamed at him, begging him to move it. He fought the urge, but it was a short war that ended in defeat. He reached down and carefully pushed the strands away from her delicately closed eyes. Her skin had an unnatural glow that was aided by alcohol and strawberries, and the soft red hue of her cheeks was gorgeous in contrast to her paleness. Her lips pouted outward lazily as she slept, making them plumper than usual. In her short sleeve shirt, the milky whiteness of her long arm that was curled upward to meet the other arm under the pillow drew his attention and he found himself absently reaching out to trail the tips of his fingers against the soft flesh.

He withdrew his attention from her and continued watching the movie, but thoughts of her haunted him. He made himself recall who she was and what she was capable of doing. He imposed upon himself the memory of what happened the last time he fell victim to his baser human needs and his suppressed emotional fragilities. He commanded himself to block all secondary interests from his mind and instead focus on the job.

His eyes wandered downward and he longed to stroke the long black eyelashes that lay across her porcelain skin as if they had been individually drawn by God Himself.

"Team Edward indeed," he mouthed almost mutely to himself as he beheld his precious victim.

* * *

Jackson awoke to the harsh, blinding New York morning sun. The sunrise wasn't directly in his eyes, but the unexpected brightness felt just as powerful to him. He squinted and lifted his head up to find an empty bed on Lisa's side. He forced himself to crawl out of his cozy nest of covers, his muscles stiff and protesting. Apparently he had fallen into a deeper sleep than he had in months and his body was angry at being ripped away from such contentment so soon.

The bathroom door was open and Lisa was applying her make-up. It was the first time he had seen her put on make-up since they had been together. "How did you get the clothes?" she asked without pretenses such as "Good morning" or "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

He tugged his shirt off over his head. "I went online and arranged for a private shopper to pick them out and deliver them to the hotel when I was out yesterday."

"You didn't pick them out yourself?" she asked with an unspoken insinuation in her voice.

Jackson took off his pajama pants and his boxers, and Lisa made a repulsed face as she looked at her work (not her eyes) in the mirror. She still avoided that woman who stared back at her. It was less daunting to know that the woman was now blonde with bangs and bore little resemblance to the other woman, but still, she was there and she was waiting for Lisa to get weak enough to look into her eyes for a truth that Lisa actively avoided.

"No. There was no reason for me to, other than to get caught on 500 different cameras in the store and in transit. Why? Is something wrong with them?" he asked as he entered the shower, not in the least bothered by Lisa standing in the bathroom with him.

"No, everything's great," she politely replied, trying to show him that she was grateful that he considered her needs beyond simply maintaining an outward appearance. "I was just a little curious about how you got my size. Especially my bra and panty size…" She remembered him moving her undergarments at the scout camp, but surely he didn't—

"Like always," he explained in a voice loud enough to be heard over the running water, "I did my homework."

* * *

The wait at the airport had set Lisa on edge, but Jackson, despite being a wanted felon, performed at ease under the scrutiny of security, cameras, and ordinary people. He was dressed in a navy suit, white dress shirt, and a navy blue tie with silver stripes—even though he hated ties, as they were a tremendous liability to one's safety. His hair was combed back perfectly smooth away from his still-bearded face and his little wire-rim classes completed his look. Lisa posed next to him almost like a trophy wife. She wore a flowing red skirt that stopped a little above her knees and a rose colored pullover blouse. She had on white flats and a white sheer cover with quarter length sleeves that she buttoned once in the front. Her blonde hair was styled in a low, straight ponytail, her bangs parted to the side and covering her face from the corner of her eye to her hairline. She stood in the security line ahead of Jackson.

When it was Lisa's turn, she was scanned and prodded in all the usual ways that made airline travel such a wonderful experience in a post-9/11 world. She cleared security, but she waited a moment for her "husband" to follow with her. Security started checking Jackson but stopped when a young blonde girl wearing a Fresh Air uniform came up to the TSA agents and whispered something to the middle-aged female administrator, who in turn whispered something to the young male agent checking Jackson. During all of this, Jackson maintained the coolest demeanor Lisa had ever seen.

"Sir, are you aware that your driver's license expires next month?" the agent asked.

Apparently the coincidentally-timed whispering was about something—or someone—else. Maybe. Jackson held his own confidently as he looked the man in the eye. "Already? I thought I had another year on it. I'll have to remember to go to the DMV."

Lisa couldn't risk this escalating into something more. "He won't," she abruptly interrupted. The administrator, the agent, and Jackson all faced her. "He never remembers anything. I'll make sure he gets his license renewed," she promised them with a warm, sweet smile as she looked adoringly at her "husband."

"I knew there was a reason I kept you around," Jackson played along, sending a charming look her way.

"You wouldn't make it a day without me. We have to go, sweetie, or we won't make our flight," Lisa asserted casually as if they were just hanging around having a good time. She stood at Jackson's side and affectionately rubbed his back between his shoulders. The agent handed Jackson his license and paperwork while the administrator couldn't help cooing at how adorable the couple was as she wished them a good flight. Jackson and Lisa contentedly linked their arms together and laced their fingers in a romantic handhold as they walked away.

"And _that's _why I keep you around," Jackson softly repeated to her when they had cleared security. Lisa permitted a small smile. She was pleased with herself and even Jackson seemed genuinely proud of how she took charge of the situation, made the players think they were in control of the moves, and then made the move herself. Checkmate. If Jackson had captured security's attention too much, they could have recognized him and all of the progress they had made, all of the struggles they had endured, would have been for nothing. "That was your first professional manipulation and all I can say is bravo."

"I learned from the best," she said, removing her hand from his.

* * *

On the plane, Lisa began feeling a sense of déjà vu as Jackson stored their two suitcases in the overhead compartment.

"Duck," he warned her as she stepped over to the window seat, and she did as he ordered, remembering how she had slammed her head into the low ceiling last time. This was her first time on an airplane since the Red Eye flight.

The two buckled up. Lisa gazed out the window as the foot on her crossed leg nervously swayed. She had vice grips so tight on the armrests that her fingers were bloodlessly white.

Jackson examined her with a keen and obvious eye, not terribly concerned if she disapproved of his close inspection. "I see you still haven't developed a fondness for air travel," he noted evenly. She shook her head, not bothering to look away from the nothing in particular outside the window that had captured her attention. "Want to talk?" It was clear that he didn't; however, he did want to keep her on task. A nervous Lisa was an unpredictable Lisa. Her behavior these days was too erratic to allow her to panic over an airplane taking off. She shook her head again. "Is it me or the plane that's bothering you?" he straightforwardly inquired over the sound of the engines starting to roar.

Lisa gaped at him. "Is that really a fair question?" She thought it would be evident to anyone with a brain that she was still scared of flying and she was equally disturbed by the idea of sitting next to him on a Fresh Air flight after what happened last time. Then again, Jackson may have been a creature of logic, but he was still male. Perhaps like every other man in the world, he was sometimes oblivious to the things that women experienced and men never thought about twice.

"You always ask me for answers even though you know that I hate questions," he stated as an answer.

The plane was accelerating. She groaned and shut her eyes, clutching the armrests even tighter. As the plane began to leave the ground, Jackson closed his eyes to avoid her reaction to what he was about to do. He cautiously reached out and placed his hand atop hers with such a gentle touch that she almost didn't notice his hand was even there. He lightly rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. It was the only demonstration of support he knew how to show her without making both of them extraordinarily uncomfortable, and he was certain it would get her attention in full. Once they were in the air, he retracted his hand to rest on his own leg. As he had predicted, his physical contact with her had distracted her from the anxiety of the plane's takeoff and caused her to stare at him with bewilderment and trepidation, an expression so strong that he could feel it penetrate his closed eyes—the closed eyes that he didn't dare open.

He leaned his head back against the seat and let himself take a small nap. He felt safe knowing that Lisa would be awake the entire flight as she no doubt studied his face in her desperate quest to find answers that would explain his touch and concern. Because the answer was so simple, it would take longer for her to find it.

* * *

Jackson sat on a bench with a newspaper spread out in front of him. His eyes were hidden behind the impossibly dark lenses of a pair of aviator sunglasses. He occasionally stole an inconspicuous glance over the newspaper. A car pulled up and parked in a space parallel to the street. The driver's door to the black Jaguar opened and a long, lean leg wearing a red stiletto appeared. An instant later, a second leg emerged from the vehicle, followed by the owner of the fabulous gams. Jackson's eyes were honed in on the straight-haired blonde with the red stilettos, fitted short black skirt, and snuggly tailored red tank with a black buttoned blazer on top. The ensemble was sexy career woman chic and it worked perfectly for Lisa as she attempted to blend in with her upscale Zurich surroundings. She adjusted her large black sunglasses and casually reached under the hair covering her ears to adjust the earpiece she had in place.

"I'm here."

"I see you," Jackson confirmed from his bench across the street from the bank. He flipped a page of the newspaper. "Are you ready?"

"Let's do this," her bright red lips replied in hushed tones.

Upon entering the bank, Lisa stopped just inside the doorway and removed her sunglasses in the most diva like stance she could manage. She opened the large black purse she held under her shoulder and dropped her glasses in it. She was playing a role, just as Jackson had done on many separate occasions. She had to become the person, not only in looks, but also in mannerisms. She was the impatient American wife who was sent to collect her husband's money from the Swiss bank and such mundane errands were below her status and worth.

She stood there as if expecting fanfare, and when none occurred, she strutted farther inside the bank. A man approached her and began speaking German. When he was done, she rolled her eyes and intolerantly huffed, "Doesn't anybody speak English around here?"

"I do apologize," the man said in heavily accented, but not difficult to understand, English. "How may I assist you today?"

"Sarah Rogers," she announced with an abundance of self-entitlement. "My husband Alexander Rogers and I have a deposit box here."

The man was playing as much of a role as Lisa. For the first time ever, she pondered how she must look to the guests at the Lux Atlantic. Did they see her as the phony who sucked up to the guests in order to make sure everyone was happy for her own benefit rather than theirs?

"Of course, Mrs. Rogers. This way, please."

Lisa followed the man through the various protocols and procedures. Jackson listened in and gave her the information she needed to answer some of the security questions that they had not prepared for during their rehearsal. When Lisa was finally escorted to the vault holding the safe deposit boxes, she removed the box as instructed by Jackson. She reached into her purse and pressed a button on a fake key ring, causing the security cameras in the vault room to flip over to a pre-recorded image of Lisa rummaging through her purse and then looking through a box filled with harmless family valuables and paperwork. Anyone who viewed the camera feed would see the one minute image of Lisa looking at something completely unimportant. Even though Jackson was a customer of the bank, he couldn't risk suspicious activity being recorded on camera. He was positive that he was no doubt one of the bank's more honest customers, but he still couldn't take the chance of the Company tracking him through a basic transaction such as this one, privacy policy or not. He was borrowing a trick from his old mentor Samuel's playbook and it was serving him well.

She looked at her watch and took note of the exact second she had pressed the button. Lisa entered the appropriate PIN into the locking mechanism. When the box popped open, she gave the contents a quick glance the way Jackson had taught her to so that she could count the money by bound groups. As expected, five hundred thousand American dollars filled the box. She opened her large purse and dumped the funds in it, straightening the wrapped sets the best she could as to avoid making her purse too bulky. She slammed the box shut and reactivated its lock before resubmitting it to its place in the wall. She shut the outer door over the box and looked at her watch. The camera feed would end with Lisa closing the box and returning it, so she stood by the door and when the second finger reached the appropriate place on her watch, she exited the vault room.

"All of your affairs are in order, ma'am?" the bank official questioned.

"They are."

He courteously escorted her out of the building and bid her a good day.

Lisa assertively sauntered down the stairs in front of the bank and got into the car. Across the street, Jackson monitored her with approval. "I have it," she said once she was in the car.

"Superb," he complimented. He closed his newspaper, folded it under his arm, and nonchalantly left the scene. "I'll meet you at the rendezvous point in five."

* * *

Lisa had just awakened from a small nap when she busted Jackson for staring at her. "What?" She repositioned herself in the cramped airplane seat. She had no idea how long he had been observing her, but he seemed more lost in thought than lost in her. He also looked like someone who had something to say.

"Daddy told," he shared in a low voice. This was a conversation they didn't want to advertise to those sitting around them, even though Lisa suspected they were the only people who spoke English in that particular area of the plane.

It took her a moment to comprehend what he was saying. "Dad reported me missing?"

Jackson handed her his folded newspaper. "Second to last page," he supplied. She flipped to the spot. There, at the bottom in a section for news from around the globe, was a picture of Lisa. It was an old picture from when her hair was shoulder length and impeccably curled, and a big smile was on her face as if to convince the world that nothing was less than perfect in her part of the universe.

"My German's a little rusty," Lisa remarked as she eyed Jackson disapprovingly for handing her a paper in a language that he knew she couldn't speak.

"'American Former Hostage Still Missing,'" he translated. "Basically it says that you are missing and no one knows where you are or why you're gone. They mention me at the end," Jackson bragged with a distinct tinge of pride in his voice. "It says that I escaped from prison and although I haven't been connected to your disappearance, it is suspected that my fugitive-at-large status may have something to do with you running away from home. As expected, my former associates cleaned your apartment for you. So as far as anyone is concerned, you just up and left one day."

Lisa glared at the article as if she could read it. "I can't believe—"

"Yes, yes you can," Jackson corrected her. "Seriously, Leese, this naïve little girl thing you have going on is getting old. We both knew your father would flip out and report you missing. I'm just shocked it took this long."

"What do we do?" Lisa asked, ignoring his insults.

Jackson shrugged. "The only thing we can do: go about our business and act like we belong."

* * *

The next stop was Marseille, France. Jackson had insisted upon flying because two Americans traveling by car would have drawn unnecessary attention at the borders while two Americans on a casual plane trip—albeit an unnecessary one due to distance—would seem a little more run of the mill. In airports, there was only one major security hurdle to jump, while on the ground, there were constant stops for fuel, food, and rest, in addition to local law enforcement as well as border patrol.

After landing, Lisa and Jackson had no choice except to get a room and make plans. They picked a small family-owned inn in lieu of a large hotel. Lisa avoided contact with the family until after she had changed her hair color from blonde to dark brown.

* * *

At this bank, Jackson's account was actually one from which funds must be withdrawn. When he had first signed-on with this particular financial institution, it had seemed like a good idea to use a regular account, but in retrospect, he should have stuck with deposit boxes for the privacy component.

The plan had been for Lisa to go in the bank alone, but her paranoid tendencies had apparently become contagious, as Jackson was now starting to second-guess what would have been a no-brainer any other time. Lisa repeatedly insisted that she should go in by herself while Jackson argued that he should go with her. She pointed out that two faces in the international media should not go in together, but he countered by saying two faces that looked familiar would appear like anyone other than the missing people when someone met them up close. People were dumb and ignorant to the world around them, he insisted. In the end, Lisa won the argument and guaranteed Jackson that all would go well.

The next morning, Lisa took a cab to the bank. Around twenty minutes later, she departed the building, her purse heavy on her shoulder.

* * *

The third stop was to claim 1.5 million from both the best and worst location to keep money: Gioia Tauro, Italy. It was a large port city controlled by the Mafia and this city was where Jackson had experienced his first run-in with the Mob. It had been a simple job: a Mafia lord had contracted Jackson after hearing about him from his American cousin. The job ended well. The Mafia lord offered him a position in his organization. It all pretty much went downhill from there in a series of complex events that were best served as reflection fodder at another time.

When Jackson had first visited the city years ago, he made arrangements at the bank before doing the job just in case things went sour. After finishing the job (and earning his Mob reputation), he had left the money in the bank for future use. Now that the moment of future use had arrived, Jackson dreaded trying to remove the money.

Lisa adjusted the earpiece in her ear. "If anything looks off, anything at all—" Jackson warned.

"I'll be fine," she replied automatically.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Leese, you don't have—"

"Jackson, I'm fine. I'm sure. Let's do this."

She looked over at Jackson. He sat in the driver's seat of their rented black Mercedes, his hands tensely gripping the wheel of the stopped vehicle and his eyes set ahead of him. "Jackson," Lisa began pacifyingly, "It's okay. I can get the money." He wanted to tell her that he was more concerned about her than the money. They had enough that they could get by for a while, that this account could go untouched, but he couldn't say it. He wasn't sure if he meant it for her well-being or his. It was a common dilemma that he seemed to experience quite often these days. The line between what was good for him and what was good for her was distorting, and that type of bias would one day get them hurt or killed. He needed to have a clear head and with Lisa around, there was no chance of his head being clear any time soon.

"Be careful," he ordered in a harsher voice than he had intended.

She got out of the car dressed in a dark gray pantsuit and flat shoes. She wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses and combed her dark brunette bangs in her face to help alter her appearance from that of the famous missing American woman who may or may not have made the news here. Behind her, she heard Jackson drive away to where he said he would park at the end of the opposite block so he could watch her from afar.

In the bank, Lisa took on the persona of the humble American Chelsea Paoli, wife of Francesco Paoli. When she went through the protocols to withdraw the funds, she saw behind the bank representative's back that a security guard was sending a text message. She tried to brush it off, but somehow it seemed amiss.

"Are we almost done?" she asked the banker. "I have an appointment to keep."

"Shit," Jackson swore when he heard Lisa say the emergency phrase. Something was wrong. If she had said the time of the appointment, he would have known it was life threatening; instead, the emergency was merely a threat to keep an eye out for from his position in the car.

A red Lamborghini drove by and parked in the alley to the side of the bank. Two men got out and propped up against the doors. Jackson recognized one of them as the highest ranking muscle of the DiBenedetto family, or at least he was promoted to that position after Jackson had met his predecessor for the first and last time. Jackson started up the car and waited for Lisa.

About seven minutes later, Lisa came out of the bank. Three black luxury cars pulled up and blocked Jackson's access to the street in front where he was to pick up Lisa. Lisa looked in Jackson's direction for a second before the two men from the Lamborghini clutched her by the arms, dragging her to the alley. Lisa gave a little struggle, but she didn't fight much. Once they had her in the alley, she elbowed one of the men, forcing him to let her go. The other tightened his grip and she tried to kick him. After he blocked her assault with his massive arm, she slung the large purse stuffed with money at him. He had to take one of his hands off of her so he could intercept the hit, and she used that opportunity to punch him. He reacted as mildly as if a child had blown a bubble in his face. Lisa kneed him in the groin and when he bent over, she high kicked him in the face. He collapsed unconscious to the ground. The recovered man she had elbowed grabbed her from behind and she smashed her flat palm into his nose over her head. When he let her go, she kicked him in the gut and then spun around to send a high roundhouse kick into his face. He fell over and joined his comrade on the stone pavement. Lisa snatched the money bag and was about to run to the street when she saw several men stepping out of cars to come at her and Jackson was nowhere in sight.

"Where are you?" she demanded over their open communication line as she hopped into the red Lamborghini and floored it. The other men returned to their three cars and followed her.

"I had to turn around," Jackson responded, irritated at the unpredicted variable in their equation. "Where are you?"

"In the red Lamborghini." He could hear the car's engine roaring in the background. "I have three cars after me."

"I'm coming up behind them."

"Where do I go?"

Jackson strained to recall the geography of the city after 15 years of being away. He had prepared for the day's bank job by studying the relevant material. He had no idea that the Mob was still seeking him so ardently after 15 years and the odds of them making a move on the exact day Jackson wanted no one to make a move was more than just a little annoying.

"Head to the docks. Do you see water yet?"

Lisa shook her head to herself. "No."

He wanted to ask her if she was going south or east, but it was pointless since she would no doubt be unable to answer that. "Are you heading straight behind the bank or sideways from the bank?"

"Straight behind."

"You'll need to make a left turn in order to see the water."

Jackson was having difficulty staying with the three black cars. They had been modified to have all vehicle logos and standards removed, and they were rebuilt for speed. He could see a blur of red in the front of the pack at a reassuring distance ahead, but he still had to get Lisa away from her pursuers. He saw the red car make a sudden turn left. The chase cars turned left at the next block while Jackson turned left immediately, a good number of blocks away from the action.

"How good a driver are you?"

"I was a teenager in Texas when I got my license," she deadpanned in the face of her current stressful dilemma.

"Then lunatic behavior behind the wheel is nothing new to you," Jackson interpreted her statement. "You're going to have to lose these guys, so head to the docks. You'll have almost three miles of semi-straight road to contend with. I'm right behind you," Jackson promised despite the truth of the statement being modified for her emotional benefit.

Lisa kept the gas pedal down more than she knew was safe for anyone as streets, residences, and businesses flew by the window. She prayed that no one got in her way at these speeds. She passed slow cars and weaved in and out of traffic for a short time before she made a sharp turn to an emptier side street. The three blacked out cars stayed with her, but not so close as to cause her to panic yet. She still couldn't see Jackson in the mirror, but he assured her that he was near. Her heart pounded in her ears and her breathing was shallow, but Lisa kept her unblinking eyes clear and focused on the road like a hawk on its prey. She felt the same pulsating adrenaline rushing through her veins as when she had fought Jackson. It was a natural high that she needed for survival, but she had to maintain her concentration to keep from letting it take over and crush her.

"I see the cargo containers," she updated Jackson. "And water."

"Me too. I'm several blocks to your side. I want you to take the first wide lane between containers," Jackson directed.

Lisa kept up the high speed and when she approached the containers, she braked long enough to tug the wheel left. The rear of the Lamborghini fishtailed, but she maintained control and floored it again. By the time she looked in the mirror, the three cars were hot on her back. They were accustomed to playing chicken with high speeds. When she braked, they hadn't, and now they were closer for it. An occasional dock worker appeared in Lisa's line of sight and she mentally repeated her unspoken mantra for no one to get in her way.

"They're right on me," she reported, her panic starting to fully reveal itself.

"Crash them! Move around and force them into the bins!" Jackson was advocating death, not murder. It was time to kill or be killed, and he wanted to see Lisa walk away from this rather than her aggressors.

Lisa took a deep breath, rationalizing in a split second that it was her or them, and she did as instructed. She braked suddenly, allowing two of the cars to pass on either side of her. Because the third behind her jerked the wheel too much while slamming on the brakes too hard, the car flipped over. She saw it revolve in the air a few times before pounding into the pavement with such force that it had surely crushed those in it. Lisa speeded up and rejoined the other two, shoving between them. She slowed a little and bumped her low-riding sportster into the car on the right, metal clanging and sparking, but the drivers of both cars opted for moving in on her. She pressed the gas pedal down to the floor once more and the Lamborghini sped off, leaving the two black cars to clumsily knock into each other, but not enough to interrupt their mission.

"I can't shake them," Lisa yelled. Potentially paralyzing fear was starting to seep in for both of them and he didn't respond to it. He needed a clear head. He needed to think. "I'm running out of road!" There was still no response. "Jackson!"

He spoke in measured tones. "In a minute, the road will get narrower and they'll have to get behind you. You'll make a small curve and see the end of the line. There are cargo bins at the end of the road. I want you to make a sharp left at full speed when you see the end."

She saw it. There was no missing it. "I can't make that!" Lisa protested. Her mental state had switched from passive to active and she was just now becoming aware of what was happening instead of solely reacting for survival. Her fear was starting to debate fight versus flight, and combined with her common sense, she knew certain things were impossible for her to achieve. When she had blindly reacted on adrenaline, anything was possible. Now that she was acting on fear, she was starting to withdraw. Jackson wasn't going to allow that to happen.

"You can. Keep full speed. Turn the wheel just a little at first—_just a little_—and pull the emergency brake as you turn. Follow the car's lead and don't jerk the wheel. If you jerk it, it'll flip and you're dead. Go easy and let the car follow your orders. When you are straight facing the turn, put your foot on the gas, let off the brake, and go." His voice was firm, but he was somehow comforting in his collected state.

Be that as it may, his instructions were a blur in her head. There was too much information, too many cars chasing her, too many ways that this would not end well. "I can't do that!" The bins were coming closer and the road was becoming narrower. The twins behind her fell in line, but they were farther behind her now.

"You can," he affirmed, his voice hard and unyielding. "Now shut up and do it!" he demanded. She was startled by his sudden aggression and that urged her into action.

Lisa saw where the bins blocked the end of the road and after she navigated through the small curve, she turned the wheel while wrenching up the emergency brake. The Lamborghini was twisting around too much, so she let off the wheel a little and the car straightened itself out to be parallel to the bin at the end. She shoved down on the gas pedal and released the brake. The car lunged forward, the transmission grinding at the hell she had incompetently put it through, and she made some quick adjustments to the wheel to aim the vehicle through the narrow road between bins, barely missing the container on the right. All around her was smoke from where the car had skidded sideways for about a hundred feet and the smell of burning rubber filled the air.

Before she disappeared from the scene, Lisa saw Jackson's black Mercedes fly through the dark smoke and enter the road she had just left from a side street he had been racing down at the very end of the docks. The Mercedes had made the same sharp turn with a professional edge worthy of a stunt driver for a movie. Jackson drove at full speed toward the two Mob cars that had not had time to drop speed. Everything happened so instantaneously that they weren't yet able to react. One of the drivers panicked and jerked the wheel. That vehicle drove straight into a bin on the right and a loud crunch echoed in the air. The other car avoided a head-on collision with Jackson at the last second by passing to the left and impacting straight into the last bin at full speed. The car exploded and flames flew high enough into the sky that Lisa, who was slowing down now that she had left the docks and was reentering the regular city, could see them crystal clearly. She heard the piercing sound of tires shrilly squealing as someone spun a car around.

Lisa pulled over into a parking space in an abandoned neighborhood. "Jackson?" she asked warily. Her voice was wavering and her breathing was coming in erratic spurts. "Jackson?" she almost wailed. She had no idea what was happening at the docks, if Jackson's car had been the one to explode or not. She would be alone, trapped in an unfamiliar country, if he had been crazy enough to get himself killed.

"I'm on my way," he answered calmly. He was so detached that Lisa could only assume that he was indeed completely dead inside or this was simply an average day at the office for him. "Where are you?"

"I don't—I don't—" Lisa was shaking and she looked around with blurry, tear-filled eyes. They could have been killed. She had never been so reckless in her entire life and contrary to the violent attacks she had undergone before, this was the first time that she ever experienced something that made her understand that, for all intents and purposes, she should be dead. The flames from the explosion had gone down only to be replaced by a plume of black smoke. The other cars' occupants were most likely severely injured if not dead. She had sought out dangerous situations over the last six years so she could feel alive, but now that she had experienced the mother of all dangerous situations, she wanted to feel safe more than anything.

Jackson's voice was warmer now. "Tell me what you see around you." Lisa used clipped single words and small phrases to describe where she had stopped the car, and somehow Jackson managed to find her in about three minutes. He parked next to the Lamborghini and got out of the Mercedes, not caring that it was in the middle of the street. There was no one in this neighborhood, so he wasn't concerned about making a scene.

As he approached the Lamborghini, he saw that Lisa was holding onto the wheel like a lifeline and looking forward, her face paler than usual. She was in shock, he concluded. Jackson opened the car door and bent down to her level. "It's over now, Leese," he patiently assured her. There wasn't time for him to tip-toe around whatever meltdown she was having. He reached in the car and extracted her by the arm. Once she was standing, he released her so she could get into the Mercedes, but he had to support her by both arms when he realized her knees where buckling under her, a delayed reaction to fear and a withdrawal symptom of adrenaline. She was completely drained of energy, both in body and mind. Jackson wrapped his arms around her quivering form and helped her maneuver into the Mercedes' passenger seat.

A few minutes later, after he had wiped her prints off of the Lamborghini and had retrieved her purse with the money, he joined her in the rental Mercedes. He was saying something about having to leave immediately, but she didn't quite follow what he said. Jackson drove as quickly as he could through the city and headed for the Lamezia Terme airport approximately 40 miles away. He used his disposable cell phone to call the airline to purchase tickets for an earlier flight to Dublin. He was not about to stay in Italy a moment longer than necessary.

* * *

About ten minutes after leaving the city limits and entering the countryside, Lisa became more perceptive of the world around her. Her breathing had slowed to the point where she barely took in breath. She just sat there. Jackson had stolen glances at her every few seconds to make sure she wasn't going to go berserk, but so far, she seemed fine.

"Jackson," she mumbled so softly that he didn't even hear her. She couldn't speak louder, but she tried. "Jackson, stop the car," she attempted again, this time reaching over to grab at his arm and instead ending up with a fist full of his jacket sleeve.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Stop the car," she whispered. "Stop now!" Lisa leaned against the door, her hand covering her mouth.

Jackson drove the car onto the dirt shoulder of the road and slammed on the brakes hard enough to rock the car. Before the car was completely stopped, Lisa had leapt out and fell to her hands and knees in the grass. As she retched, she felt Jackson kneel down behind her and collect her hair from her face. He awkwardly rubbed her back as he glanced around at the woods surrounding them. When she was finished, she was frozen in place, her head hovering over the ground. Jackson took control of the situation and pulled her off of her hands to sit on the ground in front of him. He dropped from his knees to sit down with her.

"You're in shock," he diagnosed for her. "You went through a lot and it's to be expected." He was all logic and all business, with only the faintest hint of misogynistic condescension, and somehow that had become a soothing presence for Lisa.

Lisa removed her jacket and crumpled it in her lap. She pushed her hair out of her face. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" he asked, genuinely baffled.

"We got caught. I screwed up."

Jackson shook his head, amazed at how this woman could make his old Mafia enemies finding them her fault rather than his. He had been a fool to think they could enter this city without problems, and his idiotic decision had almost cost Lisa, his best weapon against the Company, her life.

"No," he insisted. "You were fantastic. You kept a clear head, did the job, and lived to see another day."

"But those guys—"

"—Were bad men who were going to kill you if you hadn't hurt them first," Jackson reminded her. "I am about 99% certain that you never felt this guilty for almost killing me, so I don't see why you would feel that way about men who make me look like a candidate for sainthood." It was sad, but true. Lisa didn't bother to deny that he was right and Jackson was not embarrassed that it was accurate.

Lisa brushed her hand through her hair again, pushing back what the wind kept depositing in her sweaty face. "I've never done something like that before and I was terrified." Jackson had already used up all of his ways to comfort a distressed woman, so he uselessly sat there in silence and let her say what she had to say. "But you came through for me." That was not what he had expected her to say. "Why?" Another question—and _that_ was more along the lines of what he had expected her to say.

Jackson squinted and took a page from Lisa's book by shoving his hand through his hair in anxious mimicry. "I think that should be obvious by now," he cryptically admitted, eager for this conversation to soon change direction.

Lisa stared down at her lap and fiddled with the jacket she held. She made herself to look up at Jackson and use her big, innocent eyes to compel him to answer her. He owed her that.

"The Company wants us dead and you're all I have to use against them." They both knew he never lied.

Lisa's lips lifted upward, but it wasn't a smile. It was melancholy. "And when you have what you want from me, I'm…" she hesitated, searching for the word. "Expendable." Birds chirped in the trees and the sounds of nature innocently contradicted the mood of the moment.

He maintained his steady eye contact with her and it made her apprehensive. She started to blink a lot more than usual. "I've never really wanted to see you dead, Lisa."

She laughed once, her voice rough and stripped from both stress and vomiting. "Says the man who tried to kill me!"

"I could have if I wanted to, but I didn't."

"Why not?"

"You were already dead." Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized that once again, Jackson was the only person who could see her, the real Lisa. She had been dead when they met the first time. After her rape, she had become a reanimated corpse who smiled and pretended, faking her way through life only to go into her coffin at night and sleeplessly cook eggs and watch old movies in order to avoid the harshness of the real world.

"I said that I wanted you alive. And I still do."

* * *

Jackson's last major European account was in Dublin, Ireland, but there was no way that he was going to attempt accessing it. Not only were he and Lisa still wanted, Lisa was now more vulnerable than ever. She was weak and emotional, and those were bad elements to combine on a job. Jackson informed her on the road to the airport that the plan was to go to Dublin on an earlier flight and then straight to New York.

At the airport, Jackson kept his arm around her. To the casual observer, he was a man who loved his wife and couldn't stand to be apart from her. For Lisa, though, his arm around her kept her shaking to a discreet minimum and helped her maintain her footing. She felt as if she would fall at any second. Somehow the two of them made it through security without problems and things were looking up for them as they buckled into their seats on the plane.

The flight attendants spoke Italian and Lisa felt claustrophobic surrounded by so many unfamiliar words, all of that important information completely lost to her, in such a small enclosed and potentially deadly space. It was overwhelming. She may have heard about how her seat could be used as a floatation device dozens of times before, but she wanted the assurance of hearing it again, this time in English. She gripped the armrest as the plane shot down the runway and Jackson took that opportunity to translate some of the rapid-fire Italian instructions that were given while they had been waiting on the runway for takeoff. He also shared with her some of the conversations taking place around them. Lisa wasn't sure how legitimate his translations were because they sounded just a little too interesting to be considered non-fiction; regardless, she appreciated his efforts to distract her.

The flight attendants came around asking questions. Jackson answered for both of them in Italian. "She wanted to know our drink orders," he said after the attendant had left. "I told her water."

The hardest part of Lisa's time with Jackson was when he was being Jackson Rippner, the cruel middleman who had terrorized her on a Red Eye flight. She had learned that there was a fine line between the Jackson who was sarcastically humorous and oddly well-mannered and caring (in his own impassive, detached way), and the Jackson who used his disturbing mind games to disarm and weaken his opponents.

The bad thing was that she almost liked the sociable Jackson.

The worst thing was that Jackson usually wasn't aware of when he had slipped into his strange, spine-chilling mannerisms.

It was moments like this when he did so by inadvertently repeating a moment that he and Lisa had experienced on the Red Eye. Something as simple as ordering water on a plane sent her mind back six years ago. Perhaps Jackson was right. It was six years ago and maybe it wasn't even that big a deal. It wasn't as if he had truly hurt her. No matter how much she repeated that to herself, she couldn't see the truth in it, so she allowed herself to further wallow in the past. Her pit of despair was a safe place because it had four solid walls surrounding it and no one could get in it to get to her.

Lisa peered out the window at the dark night sky. She was positive that when she inhaled, she could still smell the burning rubber of the tires from the chase earlier that day. She remembered the sight and sound of the cars flipping and crashing, the flames that rose into the sky in an almost apocalyptic fury, and it bothered her. Most Mobsters were just ordinary men with wives and children that they loved. Sure, they did seedy and unpleasant things, a murder here and some laundered money there, but she still couldn't write off their injuries (or deaths—she wasn't sure) as nothing.

She stole a glance at Jackson out the corner of her eye. He was a different creature. He had no family or friends that she knew of, not that he ever talked about it aside from murdering his father, and his work was his life. She didn't feel guilty about almost killing him. Had she been fair to him? Families seemed to be her weakness. When Keefe had been a target, she could _almost_ go along with it to save her father, but when Jackson had inadvertently revealed that Keefe's family was with him, the scales tipped and Lisa changed sides. If Jackson had been a family man, could she have viewed him in a different light or was a monster still a monster?

Lisa started to shudder again, a little more conspicuously than the small tremors she had felt under her skin for the last hour or so. Jackson saw her hand trembling on the armrest. "Get ahold of yourself, Leese," he quietly warned. That just made it worse. The plane's temperature was sweltering and there was no air. She brought her arms to her chest and crossed them protectively. "Keep it together. We're almost at the finish line."

Lisa ripped her seatbelt off and darted past Jackson for the bathroom. Jackson undid his seatbelt and followed hot on her heels. The bathroom was vacant and Lisa charged in, but just as she was about to slam the door shut, Jackson's arm and leg obstructed it. He rammed his way in and locked the door. He found Lisa clutching the sink, her head facing downward to avoid the woman in the mirror. She knew if she looked up, she would see the woman standing there with a warning written in soap.

Jackson came up behind her and grasped her by the arms, directing her back to lean against the wall. Lisa's mind could only recall him seizing her and shoving her violently into the wall. "You need to calm down," he told her plainly. "You're going to get us unwanted attention if you don't get a grip," he explained harshly, not caring how she felt at this moment. If she panicked on an airplane in today's world, the authorities would be waiting for them at the next runway on which they could make an emergency landing. Lisa had to control her behavior or they would both lose everything they had worked so hard to achieve thus far.

She squeezed her eyes closed and turned her head away from him. She had been here before, heard these words before, and she wanted to leave this place. Her chest was heaving as she gasped for her elusive breath. She had to get off of the plane and away from him. Lisa felt a hand claim her chin and position her head forward. "Lisa, I need you to look at me." She kept her eyes closed, knowing that if they opened, she would be face to face with the icy blue eyes of the monster who knew how to destroy her from the inside out. "Leese," he said more sympathetically. She ignored him, thinking that if she concentrated enough, he would disappear. "Leese, look at me," he gently coaxed, his hand moving from her chin to cup her cheek. The rough skin of his thumb softly stroked her cheekbone.

Pained tears trickled out from under her clamped eyelids. "I can't," she pleaded with him.

"No," he stated, bored with her emotional female tantrums. "You're better than this shit. Get your head in the game. You are powerful. You proved that six years ago and again just under two hours ago. You survived and they didn't. Deal with it. Get over yourself. Get over what happened. Get revenge on those who fucked with both of us. Leese, look at me." Lisa opened her eyes and as expected, there were those cold blue eyes alarmingly close in her vision. "I said I'd protect you, but I can't when you're hell bent on destroying yourself first. I want to see that woman who stabbed and shot me."

Jackson unexpectedly pulled down the top of her tank that she wore now without the matching suit jacket. He lowered the material down enough that the upper tip of her scar was visible. A small cry escaped her throat as he gazed down at the scar almost admiringly. "This fueled you last time. This time, use it, use me, use whatever else you need to be strong. Feel hatred, rage, anything—just feel something. I need you to fight. We have a job to do. We have to save our own lives. Do the job, Leese."

Lisa pushed him away from her. She adjusted her shirt and wiped at her eyes. Jackson studied her closely, looking for signs of life in her, the spark he needed for her to make it through this struggle. She was still feeling the effects of her panic attack. He stood back and waited for her to catch her breath. Once she had regained her composure, she stared at him with an expression he couldn't decipher.

"It's sick that you're the only one who can do that," she commented ambiguously. "Thanks," she said in a small, reluctant voice. He had been right. She was better than this, than all of this. She had to get herself together and defeat her own demons, as well as the Company and even Jackson.

"Just doing my job," he responded, once again the cold Manager she had come to rely upon. He opened the bathroom door and stood next to it as she exited past him. A flight attendant huffed and rebuked him in Italian. He replied in Italian that his wife was having a panic attack because she wasn't comfortable on planes. The young woman seemed to empathize. She gave him some aspirin and the two bottles of water he had ordered.

Jackson returned to his seat and passed Lisa a bottle and the aspirin. Then it suddenly hit him. They had done this before and it was now obvious to him. "Okay, so maybe the déjà vu of flying together is not exclusive to you," he noted analytically. She raised her eyebrows, clearly communicating "duh, moron" to him. She had already been an emotional mess after the car chase, but when that was combined with his unintentionally familiar behavior, she snapped.

After all these weeks, Jackson was finally able to see that Lisa's trigger wasn't Jackson; her trigger was Jackson Rippner.

* * *

**TBC…**


	7. Ch 6: Barbie, Ken, and the Dreamhouse

**Chapter 6: Barbie, Ken, and the Dreamhouse**

* * *

**August, 2011**

It was about 5 p.m. and they were staying at a Comfort Inn just outside of New York City. Jackson had gladly shaved his beard and was now lying in bed watching television. His hair was wet from the shower and he wore his white undershirt and jeans. When Lisa stepped out of the bathroom in a t-shirt and loose cotton sweat pants, he averted his eyes from the screen to instead linger upon her. She sat on the edge of the mattress, careful not to block his view of the news broadcast. She removed the towel from her head to reveal that her dark brown hair was once again auburn, perhaps a shade brighter than her natural hue since she had to dye it back to its original color. She absently rubbed the towel through her hair as she watched the one-minute recap of the day's international events.

"Why didn't they shoot me when they had the chance?" Lisa unexpectedly broke the silence. "In Gioia Tauro," she clarified in case his insensitive mind had forgotten the event. It had been over a full day since the incident, but Lisa was evidently still mulling over it when Jackson thought she should have moved well beyond the matter—that was twenty-four hours ago, after all. She was alive with no injuries. It was time to carry on toward bigger problems.

"They wanted a hostage," was Jackson's simple answer. "At the bank, you signed in as my wife. They thought that someone I cared about would make a good bargaining chip."

"They obviously don't know you very well," Lisa joked, but her tone did not match her humor.

"I don't know. I think I would actually miss you a little if you had been greased by the bad guys, and cement shoes are so out of style right now," he retorted, trying to lighten the mood. He couldn't see Lisa's face, but he could see her reflection in the mirror and a small smile brightened her features for a second before evaporating. "Are you okay? Really?" he asked sincerely.

Lisa combed the shower's tangles out of her wet hair. "I'm fine and yes, I'm sure," she responded automatically. She returned her comb to her suitcase and crawled in bed next to Jackson. Both were reclined against the headboard and facing forward like a married couple of thirty years watching Letterman before bedtime. "Be careful. You're starting to act like you almost care," she admonished.

"That's where you're wrong. I do care." Jackson and Lisa turned their heads slowly toward one another, their gazes meeting at the same instant. The tension in the room built to the point that it was a physical sensation coursing through the air. "You're my 2 million dollar investment," he lamely offered.

Lisa made a quirky face. "I'm not sure if that makes you my pimp or my owner," she inappropriately theorized.

"I prefer to think of myself as your business partner."

"Well then, partner, what's next on the agenda?" Lisa leaned over and flipped off the light next to her side of the bed.

Jackson repeated her action on his side of the bed. "Tomorrow we go to the safe house. We make ourselves comfortable for the long haul and start putting this puzzle together."

"Where's the safe house?" They usually slept back to back, but this time, they were facing one another. Jackson's excuse was that he wanted to keep an eye on Lisa in case she went crazy again and Lisa's excuse was that she wanted to know what Jackson was doing.

"Just outside of Stamford, Connecticut."

"Sounds like a weird place for a safe house."

"You have no idea."

* * *

They arrived in Stamford around 8 a.m. the next morning. They dropped off the Chevy Malibu they had rented and picked up the Ford SUV they had purchased online. There was minimum contact at the dealership, so everything seemed to be going smoothly so far.

After leaving, they ended up outside the city in a rather heavily wooded area, or at least it was heavily wooded by Northern standards. Lisa had lived in the South all of her life and she knew what the woods were. Her time with Jackson had shown her that the North may have some beautiful land and trees that could transform into seasonal colors unlike anywhere else on Earth, but the South knew how to do rural like no one else. Rural in the South meant that the authorities would never know there was a buried body to even look for in the area to begin with, while in the North, rural meant that one had to drive more than a block to pick up a loaf of bread. She was surprised that this area was _notably_ further out than the proverbial "one block away from the bread."

The region had a few houses here and there. Most were far enough apart that they could hardly be considered close neighbors and this locale was not what one would necessarily call a neighborhood, or at least not until it developed more. Jackson exited for a side street and after about a minute, he came to a stop sign at an intersection for an uninhabited road that looped back to the main highway. He obediently stopped despite no traffic at all and then drove forward to the next part of the street. There were two houses on one side of the road, with at least two empty lots separating them, and three consecutive houses on the other side. The two houses looked empty, but the three houses were bursting with life. There were cars parked in driveways and flowers in bloom around porches with swings and children's toys. A freshly poured concrete sidewalk lined both sides. There were just as many trees as Lisa had seen in typical neighborhoods in Florida and Texas, if not more so, and most of them seemed to be older oaks and pines.

Jackson parked in front of the second house on the left, the side with two houses. Lisa looked at it and then back at him, expecting him to keep going.

Then it hit her.

This was the safe house, with emphasis on the term "house."

She again turned to the house and then to Jackson. "No." Her head bobbed once more between Jackson and the house, bringing her alarmingly close to _Exorcist _territory if her head continued to spin so rapidly. "_Seriously_?" she challenged.

"What did you expect: a dank warehouse in gang territory?" he shot back indignantly. "I have standards, you know," he mumbled to himself. Jackson opened his door and got out of their new vehicle at his own leisurely pace. Lisa slung open her door and ran around to intercept him in front of their maroon Explorer, her hands firmly on her hips in her most authoritative stance. He continued speaking before she had a chance to throw in her two cents. "Slums are the first place people look for fugitives. This, however, is the last place they would look." He was clearly proud of himself and his reasoning.

"Are you out of your mind?" she demanded to know, deliberately annunciating each word with righteous conviction. "There are _kids _in this neighborhood!"

"When I built the house seven years ago, none of this was out here. It was open real estate. So technically, I was here first. Besides, what's the big deal?" Jackson narrowed his eyes and craned his neck so he could inspect her with distrust. "You aren't a pedophile, are you?" he inquired in a way that was not unlike how he had asked her on the plane if she had been stalking him.

Lisa threw her hands around temperamentally and shifted about for a few moments before composing herself. Her exasperation was entertaining. "Stop acting so blasé about this. We're wanted by a lot of not so nice people and you're going to hide out in the middle of the families living in Average Town, USA?"

Jackson took off his sunglasses and beheld the neighborhood with a keen eye. There were yard decorations and toys lying on the ground forgotten. Family vans were filled with gear for after school activities. He saw the small vegetable gardens that had a tomato here and a cucumber there. Jackson turned to Lisa and slid on his glasses. "Yep. Sounds like a damn good plan to me," he announced defiantly. He confidently strolled by Lisa, intentionally brushing against her shoulder as he did so, and headed up the sidewalk to his house.

Lisa reached under her hair and roughly rubbed at the back of her neck. This was madness. They couldn't stay here. She followed Jackson up the walkway to the house. For the first time, she gave fair consideration to the house. It was big enough with two stories. The design was that of a classic, timeless home, one with architecture that was not dated by contemporary fads. It could have just as easily existed in style in the 1950s as it could in 2011. It was squared-off in shape with a basic pointed black roof. The house had been freshly painted as of late and Lisa could only assume that Jackson had seen to it before they had arrived. The dominate color was gray with white trim around the windows and frames. The windowless door was red, an ironic color given the red the two of them had accumulated on their records. Jackson opened the door and waited in the threshold for Lisa. "Are you coming, honey?" She wanted to slap the smirk off his smug face.

Lisa halfheartedly approached the door, but he blocked her entrance with an outstretched arm. "Would you like me to carry you over the threshold?"

"Would you like me to break your arm in four different places?"

Jackson grinned and removed his arm, using it instead to gesture inside at the kingdom that awaited her. Lisa moved inside and took off her sunglasses, hanging them from the collar of her t-shirt. Jackson shut the door and locked it. "Let me give you the grand tour. This, of course, is the living room," he said, gesturing around them. There was no furniture and the walls were stark white. Most of the space for the living room was to the left of the front door. To the right was a small landing and a hardwood staircase.

"And this, obviously, is the kitchen," he stated as he walked straight from the door through the living room. The kitchen had no appliances, but the slots for them were on the left wall. The sink was installed and it was under a tiny window in the middle of the kitchen. Directly in front of the sink was a small island for food preparation.

There were no walls to separate the downstairs rooms (only different types of flooring), giving the house an oddly open feel. Lisa had always liked the sanctuary of walls in houses and apartments, which was why she could never have lived in a loft like so many of her co-workers. Walls offered protection, perhaps more mentally than physically.

Jackson resumed his straight path from the door and into the third connected room. "This is the dining room." Like the kitchen and the living room before it, the walls were solid white, a bright shade worthy of a hospital or mental institution. The dining room did not have any windows and Lisa found that rather unusual. She did not ask why because she was sure Jackson had his reasons for it. "You designed this place?" she opted to ask instead.

Jackson returned to stand with Lisa, who was stationary in the living room. "Yeah. Why?" he returned suspiciously.

"It's actually not that bad."

Jackson didn't have a response, so he simply proceeded with the tour. He pointed behind him with his thumb over his shoulder. "There's a door from the dining room that leads to the downstairs bathroom and the laundry room, and there's an outside door to the carport." Lisa hadn't spotted a garage on the house when they had pulled up, so apparently it wrapped around and was in fact to the side of the house. He ascended the stairs and Lisa fell in line behind him. When they arrived on the second floor, there were five doors: two on the right, two on the left, and one in the center at the end.

"These two," Jackson said as he opened the door to the first room on the left, "are the bedrooms with adjoined bathrooms." He waited as Lisa inspected the closet and the bathroom for herself. She noticed that the bedroom had one window and it was off to the side as if to keep it away from where a bed might be placed, and where one would enter and exit the room. If anyone attempted to shoot through it, the bullet would most likely be nowhere near her. "This one's yours."

"So I get killed first by whoever breaks in," she mused cynically.

"So you can be bait. You distract them while I finish them off." Jackson knew Lisa could fend for herself, or at least do so long enough for him to reach her, so he didn't feel guilty for putting her in the first room. His true reason for doing it was that he didn't want her to feel trapped in the house. He wanted her to have an escape route to prevent her from panicking. He needed her mind to feel free if he expected her cooperation in their arrangement.

He backed away and indicated the other set of rooms. "These two," he said, opening the first door on the right, "are for whatever we need: storage, hostage interrogation, our progeny, whatever." Lisa's lips parted in momentary disbelief, but it quickly passed as she saw the sarcastic gleam in his almost transparent blue eyes. "Kidding," he added dryly when she didn't seem to appreciate his humor. "That's a full bath on the end," he said, nodding to the room at the end of the hallway. "What do you think? Is the slum crack house hideout still beckoning you?"

She refrained from commenting as they started walking. Lisa sighed as she began slowly retreating down the stairs. Jackson trailed behind her, awaiting her answer.

"Are you sure it's safe?" she spoke as she looked through the window of the living room.

"For us and for them," he assured her without hesitation.

"Then I guess it's time to buy some furniture."

* * *

Lisa sat on the floor of the dining room waiting for her laptop to start up. "How did you manage the upkeep on this place from prison?" she wondered aloud when Jackson joined her on the floor. Her legs were folded in front of her while he opted to recline on his elbows, his legs straight out in front of him.

"I have arrangements for all of my safe houses. This particular one had an agency come out once every two months to clean inside and out, inspect pipes and such, mow the lawn, you know—basic maintenance. They were on an automatic payment plan from one of my accounts and under instructions to make any necessary repairs."

Lisa snorted. "I hope it was a trustworthy company." She didn't have a high regard for the state of businesses today. Most companies would gladly rip off a customer for an extra dime.

"As trustworthy as any of them. I'll work on our IDs tomorrow," he suddenly disclosed while it was on his mind. "I have some emergency supplies in a storage unit a few miles from here. I'll pick them up tomorrow morning."

"Who are we?" Lisa asked as she accessed the internet from the Mobile hotspot she and Jackson had purchased under one of their aliases.

"Who do you want to be?"

Lisa shrugged. "That's your thing. I'll let you handle it."

"It'll be your name for the next few years, so you should pick. You don't want to pick under the pressure of a desperate moment. Put some thought into it."

Jackson was right. Lisa was going to have to live a new life as another person for the next few—

_Wait a minute_.

Realization hit her and Jackson's words replayed in her head. Her heart almost stopped. "_What_?" she asked slowly, hoping that what she had just heard was sarcasm.

"You'll have that name for a while," he casually paraphrased, unaware of what was causing her melodramatic reaction.

She gestured excessively with her hands, indicating that he rewind to a few seconds ago. "No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no—the part about years. _Years_?" she repeated disbelievingly.

Jackson sat up straight next to her. "We don't know how long this will take, so yeah, years are more likely than weeks or months. You said you know nothing about the Company. If that's true, we're starting from scratch. We're assembling a puzzle that consists of thousands of small pieces and we don't have a box with a finished picture to look at for a point of reference. We don't know what we're putting together. We can't possibly set a timeline on this. Let's be realistic here."

Lisa didn't want to be realistic. She wanted to go home. Unfortunately, the more she thought about her longing to go home, the more she realized that she didn't technically have a home. She had an apartment with a bunch of unopened moving boxes from a past life. She had no friends and she seldom saw her family. When she was around her family, she was in the midst of strangers.

Jackson shuffled to his feet. He put a firm hand on Lisa's shoulder, indicating that she should stay there. "I'll get our luggage."

Outside, Jackson caught sight of a woman across the street, down several empty lots from their place, tending to her garden's tomatoes. She had devoted her entire attention toward observing Jackson. He threw a hand up and gave her his best friendly neighbor wave. She waved back enthusiastically before jumping up, gathering the small basket of tomatoes she had already picked, and scurrying inside. A few minutes later, Jackson set down two of the suitcases on the pavement next to the SUV. He could feel eyes on him and when he looked up, the woman was inside her house with her husband. They had the curtain peeled back so they could both watch. He didn't bother to acknowledge them this time. The best he could do was hope that they were not comparing his picture to one in a newspaper.

Jackson carried two suitcases and one of their shoulder bags inside the house. As he was going back out to collect the rest, the husband was diagonally crossing the street. Of course.

"Morning," the man greeted.

"Morning," Jackson returned to him, blandly enough to be polite yet not to encourage additional interaction.

"Frank Keller," he introduced himself as he offered Jackson a hand. Jackson took his proffered hand and shook it firmly. Frank was a big guy. He was probably around six foot two and was a hefty weight. He wasn't fat or chubby, but he was just a big built guy whose fifty-something years brought on a few extra pounds here and there. His graying black hair was cut into a short buzz cut. He wore jeans and a sloppy, faded t-shirt that said NYPD. Naturally.

"Jack Roberts," Jackson provided, suppressing a cringe. He had not gone by Jack since he was eight-years-old and the only reason he did so now was because he was fairly certain that Lisa would have a slip of the tongue and call him something to that effect. The best lie was the one that was merely a bent truth.

"Welcome to the neighborhood, or what little there is of it," Frank said with one of those friendly laughs people used when trying to impress a newcomer with their niceness. "My wife, Anna, didn't want to come meet you because she's a mess from working in the yard all day. I wouldn't be surprised if she's inside throwing together your welcome basket as we speak."

"She's a homemaker?" Jackson probed, hoping it sounded more politically correct than nosy and chauvinistic.

"She works at the hospital as the executive administrative assistant, or as I call it, head secretary." Frank laughed again and Jackson politely smiled. "Today's her day off and she loves her yard more than she loves me. What about you and your wife? What do you guys do?"

"I work from home. I'm a consultant for a computer security firm. I basically test professional and industrial tech for bugs, holes, vulnerabilities to prevent technologically-based industrial espionage. It's a mouthful," Jackson conceded. Both men chuckled. "My wife, Elise, is between jobs." The truth was that Jackson didn't have an excuse for why Lisa would be home every day, or at least not an excuse that she would tolerate from him. He had to think of something and making her unemployed was the best he could do on such short notice. "You're a cop?" Jackson risked inquiring, hoping that the NYPD shirt was an exhaustion-fueled hallucination.

"Retired beat cop. I left about a year and a half ago. We wanted to travel, but we never made it that far. You know how it is when you dream and plan bigger than you actually feel like following through?" Jackson knew about that first hand from when he had followed Lisa to her father's home and then, like a madman, attacked her and attempted to—to—do something. He hadn't planned it all the way through. At the time, going to the house for vengeance was the plan, but what the vengeance was specifically going to be was something he hadn't considered during his fevered tantrum.

"Yeah, I know a little about that," Jackson acknowledged vaguely.

"You guys have any kids?"

At least a dozen smart remarks filled Jackson's mind, but he resisted the urge. "Not yet. To be perfectly honest, it's not on the agenda. We're too selfish for kids."

Frank's eyes bugged out for a second, but he grinned and nodded fiercely in agreement. "Brutally honest and smart. I like you guys already. I tell you, I have three daughters from eighteen to twenty-three and the only 'agenda' we ever made was to stop having kids after the first one. You can see how well that turned out." Jackson was starting to zone out the way he usually did when people started talking about their kids because, in all honesty, he didn't give a damn. "When's the moving van coming? I'm sure you two could use some help," Frank offered.

"No moving van," Jackson improvised at the unexpected line of questioning. "We lived in an apartment all this time and we decided that when we eventually moved into a house, we'd start from scratch. We saved up and now we're ready to do just that. The delivery trucks should start rolling in tomorrow, fingers crossed."

"How long have you been married?" Frank was a natural born interrogator, and while Jackson didn't perceive danger from his presence, he was more attentive to his typical observation of human behavior, particularly the human behavior of a retired police officer who may still want to play detective.

It was time to work on that truth bending skill again. "We've been together for six years, but it seems like forever." Jackson looked toward the house and saw Lisa standing in the doorway, watching anxiously. "Elise, sweetie, come on out," Jackson called, motioning for Lisa to join him. When she was a few feet away, he stretched out his arm, his fingers open and waiting for her to put her hand in his. When she did, Jackson lifted her hand up to his lips and placed a soft kiss on her knuckles. Lisa plastered a giant fake smile on her face and prayed that it would appear sincere. He continued to hold her hand at his side.

"This is my wife, Elise. Leese, sweetie, this is Frank Keller." With her free right hand, Lisa shook hands with her new neighbor while exchanging brief pleasantries. "We're in good hands in this neighborhood. Mr. Keller is a retired NYPD officer," Jackson informed Lisa.

"Really?" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "That's great. But I doubt there are many problems around here. It seems like such a private and safe neighborhood. Not a lot of—" she involuntarily glanced at Jackson out the corner of her eye—"dangerous elements."

"I still have ties in the Force and I volunteer with the Stoneybrook and Stamford Police Departments when they need the help. Don't worry; you guys are in good hands here."

Lisa's face was starting to hurt from all of the smiling and Jackson was counting down until Frank decided to leave them alone.

Frank stared at Lisa, unnerving her as he began to closely analyze her. She stayed strong and tried to remain in charge of the proverbial game board. "You look familiar," he concluded. Lisa squeezed Jackson's hand and he squeezed it back, his head almost imperceptibly shaking "no" one subtle time. "I know," Frank said, snapping his fingers. "You look like that girl on TV." Lisa grew lightheaded and she could feel dread radiating off of Jackson. His face was hard and alert. "What's her name?" Frank muttered, gazing blankly at the ground as he navigated through his thoughts. He snapped his fingers again, this time in victory. "Jennifer Garner!"

Lisa laughed, more relieved than faux-polite. "Yeah, I get that a lot," she divulged, rather offended at the comparison.

* * *

When they finally escaped Frank, Lisa and Jackson were able to bring in the rest of the luggage. "Oh my God!" Lisa put her hand over her pounding heart. "He scared the hell out of me!"

Jackson leaned back against the door and let his head hit it. "That was close, but living with one of New York's finest across the street is either going to be a blessing or a curse. I prefer it as a blessing." Jackson took a deep breath to help regain his stoic composure before picking up the suitcases again and starting up the stairs. Lisa retrieved the other bags and joined him. "If we get on his good side, we get a blinded law enforcement officer who will help act as our guard dog. If we aren't on his good side, we get an eager neighborhood watchman who will monitor our every move and cause problems when we aren't his idea of ordinary." Jackson dropped Lisa's suitcase just inside the doorway to her room. She placed her other bag next to it and Jackson took his second bag from her with his free hand.

"You're suggesting we play the happy couple with them?"

"No, I'm suggesting we don't run from them, but don't push them into friendship either. We want to remain neutral and follow their lead." Jackson set his suitcases down inside his bedroom's entrance.

"Why did you go with 'Elise'? Isn't that too close to 'Lisa'…or 'Leese,'" she added awkwardly. Her father was the only one allowed to call her that and Jackson was the only one she would let get away with it since technically he wasn't "allowed" to do anything in her book.

"That's the idea. The best lies, the best cover stories, are the ones where you are telling a distorted truth. I, unfortunately, have to go by 'Jack' again," he begrudgingly admitted as the two walked side by side down the stairs at a comfortable pace. Her arms were crossed and his hands were in his pockets. Occasionally their shoulders bumped or their arms lightly brushed together.

Lisa seemed taken aback by this. "You really don't go by 'Jack,' do you?" She remembered how _flustered_ (for lack of a better term) he had become when she called him "Jack" before, but that situation was not the best reference to back-up any sort of assumptions.

"You thought I made that up?" His voice was riddled with condescension at her obliviousness.

"Well, you said you murdered your parents for naming you Jackson because of the 'Jack the Ripper' part, and since Rippner was an alias and the parricide was not _entirely_ accurate, I figured that the 'Jack' part wasn't either." It made sense to her.

Jackson exhaled a "tsk." "I really haven't gone by 'Jack' since I was eight. Jack was a different person."

"Are you ever going to tell me that story?" she queried as he took the final step off the stairs and she remained two steps above him.

"When you're ready to hear it, I'll tell it."

She gripped the staircase's wooden handrail. "I'm ready—"

Jackson held up a hand to stop her. "You _want _to hear it right now and that's not the same as being ready to hear it. When the time comes for you to know, I'll tell you." Lisa winced with resentment as she recalled Josh telling her the exact same thing with regards to her training. Her lessons had only come when she was ready rather than when she wanted it. Oddly enough, she had slipped and called Josh by Jackson's name one time. Perhaps Josh had been right. Maybe, just _maybe_, he and Jackson were more alike than Lisa recognized. It seemed Jackson was always a direct mirror of someone in her life: her father, Josh, herself. The possibilities for parallels were endless.

With an apparent chip on his shoulder, he led the way back into the dining room and Lisa followed him like Gretel trying to figure out how to have the gingerbread without being cooked by The Witch. Jackson was still such an enigma to her. There were moments when she almost enjoyed his company, but there were others when he terrified her. Not all of the wires in his brain were attached properly, of this she was sure. He ran hot or cold, and there was no middle ground with him. He was either completely desensitized, or he was bitter and filled with rage. She couldn't imagine what could have damaged him so much to make him the automaton he was today. She had an excuse, a clear-cut backstory that explained her visible and invisible scars. He had nothing except inappropriately dark jokes and an eerie subtext-laden interaction with her. Then there was that whole part about killing his father.

The fact that Lisa's walls were crumbling and she was starting to feel safe and even a little "at home" with him scared her more than he did on most days. She was not a healthy person and she knew it. Allowing Jackson, who was already in her head to begin with, to have free reign around her was just as good as giving him the figurative keys to herself with generic instructions for him not to wreck her. For all of her posturing as someone who was capable and strong, she had easily ended up as a giant dud that fizzled out when ignited. Jackson was holding her hand, guiding and shielding her from those who wanted to harm her while keeping her focused on the job rather than on her problems associated with the job. Now that he was the puppeteer and she was the puppet, there was no way she would be able to cut the strings. A puppet that cuts the strings connecting its life to the hands of his master is a suicidal puppet that will cease to exist upon separation. If she barely existed before Jackson had reentered her life, she certainly wouldn't exist at all if she lost him from her life.

They sat down on the hard dining room floor, backs against the wall and the laptop between them. "First things first," Lisa began as she typed in Home Depot's URL, "these institutional white walls have to go."

* * *

For five hours, Lisa and Jackson scoured the web for the best deals they could find on new furnishings for the house. He willingly surrendered the responsibility of painting and decorating to Lisa, citing how her feminine nature made her ideal at picking out pink and frilly things that made women feel at home and gave men the need to go out and drink while looking at sports or a dancer with overstated breast implants. She criticized Jackson's bland, possibly even brutish taste in furniture for the living room while he ridiculed her reluctance to buy an iPad like the rest of the world. He picked out a large screen television with "a high enough resolution that we can count the actresses' Botox injection sites." Together they selected the kitchen appliances and wares because neither was a great cook beyond one or two specialty dishes each and, in all honesty, they didn't understand the function of most culinary tools but refused to admit their lack of knowledge to the other person. Their PayPal account, under yet another alias, came in handy for making their purchases. They had yet to buy their own individual necessities, clothing, and food, but that had to wait until after they could establish a stable budget.

Jackson groaned and collapsed onto the floor with his hands folded over his eyes. Shopping for hours online without a break was torment on his vision. "I think I'm going blind," he whined. It was unexpected and undignified, and it tickled Lisa enough to make her giggle for the first time in years. He seemed human for once.

Lisa pawed at her eyes with her knuckles, pressing and stretching the skin roughly as if it would help, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. She was stiff in the neck from remaining uncomfortably slumped over the computer for such long periods at a time without even realizing what she was doing. As she rotated her neck, bones popped and she could feel and hear her joints snapping back into their proper place. "Owwww…that is not supposed to make that kind of noise," she laughed softly.

Jackson attentively monitored Lisa's hand as it reached up under her sloppy half-ponytail that was left tucked in the elastic. Tendrils of curly strands were slightly frizzy and hanging loose from the rest of her hair. Her bangs were invisible due to being mixed in with her other captured auburn locks. She kneaded the knots on the curve of her neck with a hand flexing motion that left him accidentally pondering other uses for her skills. Jackson's breath caught in his suddenly dry throat and his lips parted as his brain told him to let in oxygen. Unfortunately, his body was more concerned with spying on Lisa than doing something as irrelevant to the moment as breathing. Her muscles were tense enough that a light sprinkling of goosebumps had popped up on the porcelain skin of her neck. A slow burn, foreign from a time long passed but not unrecognized, spread through Jackson's body as Lisa wriggled out of her t-shirt and let the tank top she wore underneath advertise even more of her satiny flesh.

He prided himself on being able to control his body as he could any other instrument. His body was second to his mind. It didn't even get a vote when circumstances arose that involved both body and mind. His mind was the dictator of his country, but this time was different. A situation was arising just as other things were starting to rise. Without waiting for permission from his head, his little head sent the signal to his body to seek out Lisa. Lisa must be touched. His hands, the traitorous bastards, agreed to this plan, along with his legs. He crawled over the small space separating him from his target. His head attempted to overrule the mutinous body parts that had worked against the commanding mind, but it was of no use. His mind was in mid-protest when his lips touched down on Lisa's neck, kissing, licking, nibbling her as if she were ambrosia. Her sore neck was long forgotten as she lifted her head and let an almost savage moan fill the air of the empty house. His hands were jealous that his lips had made first contact, so they took action by navigating around Lisa's svelte body and exploring the various hills and valleys of her chest, stomach, and sides that Jackson recalled admiring as he "read the newspaper" in line behind her at the airport six years ago (despite her jacket somewhat obscuring his view).

He grabbed her by the hair and she shrieked, not in terror, but in aroused disbelief. He directed her onto the floor in front of him and in a split second, he was straddling her, his mouth attacking the front of her neck and her chest north of her scar. She startled him when she reached up and ran her hands through his hair, clutching at chunks of the thick dark strands and tugging primitively as his mouth travelled lower. His tongue greeted her lower chest as he licked the inside of her cleavage before yanking the tank top over her head in one swift movement. He was blissfully exploring the soft tissue of her breasts when—

"Are you okay?" Lisa interrupted, continuing to massage the muscles in her aching neck. Jackson blinked hard once and realized that he had been fantasizing about Lisa, the broken and delicate creature who sat fully clothed in front of him. It was a twisted indulgence, one he should have never allowed to take charge over his intellect. He was evolved beyond that. Allegedly. It could have been worse, he reasoned. It could have happened in bed with her. That would have had the potential to destroy everything. He had to get it together and he had to do it now.

Jackson cleared his throat and checked his watch. It was 1:47 p.m. "We missed lunch. I feel like Chinese. What about you?" he inquired quickly as he forced his stiff—in more ways than one—body to stand. He hurried out of the room before she could notice his physical reaction to her.

Lisa was already uneasy around him and the last thing he needed her seeing was his perverted weakness for her. She was the bitch who had almost killed him (even if he was the bastard who had almost killed her, but that was beside the point). He was the one she thought was dead inside. He was the one they both deemed as abnormal in any sense common to humanity, including his sexual needs or apparent lack thereof. Lisa saw him as a predator and predators in the wild hunt their prey, but never do they become sexually distracted by the prey. Jackson wanted to blame all of this on his extended stay in prison, but he had previously gone without the distracting expressions of sexuality much longer than that. He even wanted to blame it on Lisa for seducing him, but he knew that was a pathetic justification. He took it a step further and considered that it was because Lisa was the only woman he could possibly be with and not worry about blowing his cover, but that wasn't it because Emma, Elissa, Eliza, or whatever her name was in Washington had been willing to give it away when he wasn't eager for the freebie from her. Lisa was a walking tragedy and even to humor the delusion of being with her in any non-professional way was a disaster waiting to strike them for a second time.

In the end, his logical mind told him that Lisa was nothing more than an emotional malfunction, a glitch in his system. She had made him feel anger, and between that and his obsession with her for costing him the successful completion of the Keefe job, his occupation, and his freedom, he projected all of his human shortcomings on her.

That was what he would keep telling himself until the day that he caved in and believed it. It was as good an explanation as any.

* * *

Jackson was back at the house by 2:39 p.m. with a large brown paper bag full of food. "I wasn't sure what you like since I never saw you order Chinese before, so I ordered a little of pretty much everything," he confessed without shame. Having a degree in Lisa-ology (earned during an eight-week intensive-study course outside of her apartment) usually came in handy, but not this time.

Lisa was lying on her side, her head propped up on her fist and her free hand operating the computer's touchpad. When Jackson started unloading cartons and styrofoam boxes from the bag and setting them on the counter in some sort of order that was apparent to him alone, Lisa joined him and eyed it all like a curious cat. He seemed engulfed in arranging the boxes and he didn't acknowledge her. "The drinks are in the car," he said by means of excusing himself before exiting through the backdoor to the garage.

Lisa was eager to eat, but they had a problem: no plates. She heard the door shut and lock, and a few moments later, Jackson was by her side at the kitchen counter. "We forgot the plates," she told him.

"We can either divvy everything now or we can just share," he answered, making her feel like she had been overreacting.

She and Jackson had been naked together (but respected one another's privacy by not looking when possible). They had slept platonically in the same bed together for two months. They had pigged out on pizza and room service in New York using their fingers and their forks. This wouldn't be any different.

"Bring the food. I'll pull up some TV shows for us."

* * *

The two rested against the wall and watched recent but not necessarily new television shows on the laptop. First up was _Burn Notice_, followed by an episode of _Dexter_. Jackson jokingly accused Lisa of picking those two shows on purpose, claiming that he took offense at the "betrayed spies" and the "serial killer in the burbs" storylines as her jab at him, but she was steadfast and swore that she had selected them based on popularity alone. All throughout their viewing, the two ate a few bites of this and that, passing it to one another with the casualness of old friends. They were watching an episode of _Castle_ when it was time to open their fortune cookies.

"I hate this part," she complained as she picked up the individually wrapped cookies from where she had set them off to the side.

"Everyone else in the world apparently loves fortune cookies, so it makes perfect sense that you would detest them," Jackson reproached drolly. "Do you have a reason for your prejudice or is it borne of ignorance?"

"Aren't you funny," Lisa mocked in a silly voice. "No," she began again, but more seriously. "I love the cookies themselves. I could probably eat them by the dozen, but I hate getting my fortune because it always comes true or it's already true. Every. Single. Time," she stressed.

Jackson snickered once at her melodrama and then paused. "You're serious?" he asked, an amused smirk lighting up his face. "Fortune cookies have no magic or power. They are a racial stereotype at work, nothing more," he rationalized.

"Whatever! Mine come true!" she shot back. "Ugh, let's get this over with," she grumbled, passing Jackson his cookie. Both sat side by side, their legs bent in front of them and their knees in the air.

Lisa heard the sharp exhale of Jackson's suppressed, bemused laugh when he read his. Lisa, however, was bothered by her fortune. It was not something she wanted to see in black and white in front of her. It was real seeing it in writing and not just considering it in her darkest moments when shame and loneliness met and formed a truce for her benefit.

"What does yours say?" she questioned, tightening her hand around her fortune as if to make it disappear from existence.

"'Excitement and intrigue follow you closely wherever you go!'" he read with gusto before scoffing. "Where do they come up with this shit? What's yours?"

"It's stupid. One of those 'Confucius Say' things."

"Aww, come on," Jackson pressured her. She smiled shyly and tried to act like it wasn't a big deal. "I told you mine," he continued. "C'mon," he tried again, this time swaying his knees to bump hers as he nudged her shoulder with his. "You know you want to."

"It's ridiculous. It's the first wrong one I've ever gotten and that must be a sign in itself," she suggested more to herself than him. She opened her sweaty palm and peeled the small paper strip off of her warm, sticky hand. "'Freed from desire, then you can see the hidden mystery.' See, I told you it was nothing." She balled up her fist again to hide the offending fortune. She held her head away from his view for a few seconds and when Jackson said nothing, she turned to him. "It's," she began. He, by coincidence, moved his head at the same instant and both their eyes locked in an unanticipated encounter. "Ridiculous," she repeated softly, almost breathlessly as she lost herself in him. That was the last thing she wanted, not just in the here and now, but at all.

Their eyes stayed trapped in the intensity of the other's gaze. It was the first time they had truly, genuinely beheld one another with minds that were open not only to the possibilities of who the other person really could be on the inside, but also open to the possibilities of what could be. Jackson was the first to break away from the magnetic attraction of her doe eyes. His blue orbs travelled down a few inches to her slightly parted plump mouth. Her lips were a muted, natural shade of red painted by the blood circulating beneath the skin and when she nervously licked them, his heart fluttered excitedly for a moment. That butterfly sensation was unlike anything he had ever felt before in his life and it felt like vulnerability. Lisa's own eyes fell to his mouth and she wondered what his full lips would feel like melding with hers. She imagined them trailing over her body and brushing her with the softness of feathers. The idea fascinated her while repulsing her. It seemed so natural, so inevitable, yet it violated all laws of reason, common sense, and human nature. She was so damaged, and perhaps so monstrous, that she could only find solace in the companionship of another monster, a monster she knew and, in part, helped create.

Jackson's mind refused to be dragged back into the gutter again and instead opted to take control of his body. He suddenly jerked his head from Lisa, belatedly hoping that he hadn't sent her the wrong signal. He didn't want her to think that he didn't want her, but he certainly didn't want her thinking he _did _want her. There was too much wanting, not wanting, and a Lisa who looked wanton. Life was so much simpler when there was no Lisa to want or not want. Both of them stared forward numbly, watching the wall across from them with acute captivation.

"We should change restaurants and find one that has good fortunes," Lisa determinedly stated, trying to ignore whatever it was that had just happened.

Jackson, able once more to use his Managerial skills, observed Lisa's reaction. She seemed spooked and disconcerted. Then it dawned on him: Lisa was a rape victim and she no doubt viewed sexual matters, including desire, with a different perspective than the rest of the world. A fortune that talked about desire would obviously bring to mind specific matters, particularly since she was in the presence of her arch-nemesis. Typically, Jackson maintained a sexless status for the invincibility that came with such disinterest, but even he comprehended that it was becoming harder to do so with Lisa always so near. He needed to stab into her chest and rip out her beating heart for all the wrongdoings she had done to him, but he also longed to go in and repair her heart because no woman deserved to walk around under such a violent storm cloud all her life.

"I'd never…" he clumsily started, not knowing how to word what he had to say. He was a well-spoken man who hardly ever stumbled or struggled with language, but now he was searching for terms out of reach and second-guessing every word his mind transmitted to his mouth. "I'd never hurt any woman that way," he finally said, making sure to keep it broad and not limited to Lisa alone. She scrutinized him blankly. "That's not who I am. Believe it or not, I'm not even violent by nature," he added, but it sounded like a lie to him as his mind recounted all of the deaths he had caused directly or indirectly. He had killed and he was far from an innocent victim of circumstances. He waited for Lisa to remind him yet again about the songs from their _Greatest Hits _compilation album: "He Threw Me into a Wall," "He Said 'Hi' But He Lied," "Mammas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Managers," and "Lady Killer is a Daddy Killer." He had assaulted her. He had been violent with her. But he had never taken it to a sexual level, contrary to the sexual undertones he himself experienced during each of the acts.

He had misjudged the nature of her neutral reaction. "No, no, Jackson, I know that." Lisa spontaneously put her hand on his shoulder without thinking about it.

His left eyebrow rose slightly and he couldn't help looking at her hand like it was a tarantula on his shoulder. "What makes you so sure?"

Jackson was a man of facts and logic, so she gave him just that. "You had plenty of chances six years ago," she recapped for him. She may have resented him and all he had done to her, but she was more than aware of what he hadn't done and could have done. "And of all the things I can possibly expect from you, that's not one of them." Jackson didn't like her confident way of telling him that. Her positive view of him disturbed him, making him consider the possibility of Lisa having Stockholm Syndrome. If Jackson could read her mind, he would know how she recalled his reaction to her scar and her story about the rape. He had listened respectfully, offering his own statement that was _almost _supportive in his own way. For Lisa's many retrospective views on that fateful day, Jackson's attempt to distance himself from men who sexually assault women had remained in her mind as conceivably his one redeeming virtue. It was ironic given his feelings toward women. He seemed to walk a line of resenting women while simultaneously wanting to protect them due to the very "weaknesses" that drove him to hate them.

Jackson didn't know what to say. Everything he came up with in his mind sounded hollow and insignificant, so he opted to remain speechless rather than tainting the peace with his useless prattle.

He slid out from under her hand and strode upstairs as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. Lisa assumed his disinterested attitude meant he didn't care while Jackson assumed Lisa's kind attitude meant she was mentally manipulating herself into caring. He didn't have time for these games.

* * *

Shortly after midnight, Jackson put on dark clothes and a hoody. He laced up his sneakers and escaped out the back door. He took off jogging through the neighborhood, avoiding security cameras and alarm systems, scanning for neighbors who had dogs, and surveying which paths were the best escape routes. He looked for areas that could serve as traps should someone corner them or should they corner someone. He made note of where shadows fell, and where the bright house lights and the few street lights the neighborhood had lit up the area like a Hollywood premiere. When he was done, he tied the hoody closed over his head and ran for the woods at the end of his street.

He heard Samuel's question echoing throughout the night: was he running away from something or toward it. Jackson wasn't sure. He had a long laundry list of things to resolve and it was high on the list, right after figuring out if he hated Lisa or lov—didn't hate her, and it was above wondering how his life would ever resume after this little escapade. He didn't have many options in this world. Manager was a job that he was good at because it was the man he had grown into so early in life. To change careers would require he change himself and there was no way that much dirt could wash away from the remnants of his soul. After saving himself and Lisa, he couldn't simply go to headquarters, walk up to the front door, and ask for things to go back to normal. There was no going back. He could never take any other job because Jackson Rippner had gained public notoriety and disguise or not, alias or not, cover story or not, he was a giant sore thumb sticking out of the crowd of normal people. Prey often had an intuition of a predator in the midst.

The Lisa situation was starting to irritate him. She was softening around him, becoming dependent on his support (or whatever coldness he gave her that she interpreted as support). She was reliant on him being her partner in all of this when he was merely another bystander on the run who had agreed to protect her, not to put bandages on all of her boo-boos, kiss them, and make them better. Her trust in him had increased. She still didn't _trust _him, but she was open to putting more trust in her assumptions of him. Jackson was grateful that she at least sustained awareness at all times of who and what he was. Now if only he could teach her that they weren't friends. They didn't like each other. Sure, they had chemistry, but so did toxic chemicals right before they were joined in a contained beaker and exploded.

Like every other woman, she had a bit of Eve in her. She was following temptation and desperately seeking an answer to something she had no right to know. She was trying to pry information out of him about who he was and how he came to be the evil villain of their story. She wanted to know his motivations and what enabled the twisted personality she had come to know so well. He promised that he would tell her when she was ready, but he wasn't sure if she would ever be ready or what "ready" even was. Lisa didn't need to know the past because the only parts of his life story that were relevant to her were the ones dated August 19, 2005 to the present day.

Jackson had been running at full speed the entire time, but he kicked it into overdrive, urging himself to go faster, harder, farther.

Over forty-five minutes later, he figured out with disappointment that he had been running in circles.

* * *

Just shy of 2 a.m., Lisa heard the downstairs door shut. It was the faintest of sounds and she had only been able to hear it because she had been riding the uneven wave of semi-consciousness most of the night. She wasn't accustomed to sleeping alone again and she wasn't quite sure how she had become so dependent on sleeping with a companion. The floor was carpeted, and thankfully clean and mold free due to the house's maintenance over the years, but it was as hard as a brick. They had slept in worse places over the last two months and she was grateful for what they had, but it wasn't ideal. She was almost pouting because they had a nice house, but with the exception of having electricity and running water, it wasn't livable at the moment. Her discomfort combined with whatever had happened downstairs earlier ate at her and kept her tossing and turning. So when the door clicked, she snapped into alert mode.

Lisa reached for her bag and was going to retrieve her gun when she remembered she didn't have it. It was still in storage in New York and they had yet to collect their goods from the unit. She didn't bother putting on shoes, instead opting to head out only wearing her t-shirt and underwear. When she was in the hallway, her footfall was delicate and light on the cold hardwood floor. She cracked open the door to Jackson's room, but didn't see him amid the darkness. Lisa rushed down the hallway and crashed into a dark mass before she could reach the stairs. Instinctively, she hit at it, but it grabbed her and fell to the floor with her on top. The large blob of darkness rolled over and pinned her hands above her head while immobilizing her legs with dead weight.

"It's me, Leese. It's me," Jackson yelled, struggling to restrain her. By the feel of her body wiggling beneath his, he could tell she didn't have on pants and he directed all of his willpower into tuning out that fact. She abruptly froze when her mind departed "fight or flight" mode.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, shoving him off of her. As he untangled himself from her, she could see the faintest traces of his familiar cheekbones in the hazy moonlight that came through their bedroom windows and into the hallway.

"I went for a jog and checked out the neighborhood." Lisa mentally kicked herself for already knowing that. Jackson always did his homework. Wherever they had stayed during their travels, he had always followed procedures by observing his environment and planning escape routes. This would not be his first nighttime assignment in the neighborhood and it would not be his last. As long as they resided there, he would no doubt keep his mental notes updated.

"You should've told me."

"Were you worried?"

"I should know when you're gone."

Jackson got up first and offered a hand to Lisa. She couldn't see it so much as sense him bending over close to her. Her hand fumbled in the black air a moment before taking his proffered hand and allowing him to help her to her feet.

"I may have left, but I was never gone."

* * *

The next morning, Lisa awoke with a pounding headache that felt more like a hangover than a poor night's sleep. She heard some men yelling at each other and she exhaustedly rolled, scooted, and crawled to her window to see if there was anything going on in the sunny and painfully bright backyard. It was empty. She stood up, bracing herself against the wall to allow her throbbing head to overcome the sudden rush that darkened her vision for a few seconds. Lisa carefully padded over to the empty room across the hall and investigated through the window to see trucks from Best Buy, Home Depot, and a local furniture store dropping off some of the stuff they had ordered yesterday. The overnight shipping had cost a pretty penny for several of the stores, but it was done out of necessity.

Lisa showered and prepared for her day before joining Jackson downstairs. She put on a navy blue pullover top and jeans, and her hair was in a ponytail that displayed her long locks. Her bangs were pushed to the side out of her face. She stood midway on the stairs and watched Jackson. He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, but he somehow looked more professional than he had yesterday despite wearing the same type of wardrobe. It was all in how he set his mind and that was something Lisa had figured out long ago. Jackson's mindset dictated his personality and actions, and today he was all business as he signed his fake signature with confidence and authority. He directed the men to different areas, pointing and giving orders on locations. Lisa finished descending the stairs.

"Good morning," she told everyone en masse as the workmen exited through the front door yet again to retrieve more goods and Jackson adjusted one side of the new couch still wrapped in plastic.

"Sleep well?" he asked, not bothering to look up as he attempted to balance the couch so it was in a straight line parallel to the wall.

"Not really. You?"

"Never," he replied honestly.

"Where would you like this?" The furniture men were carrying a table for six. Lisa and Jackson would most likely never eat a meal at it, but they had opted to order the large table simply for the workspace it would afford them. They could stretch out their notes and not worry about being crammed.

"Dining room, in here," Jackson instructed, forgetting the couch and leading them into the other room.

"You guys are busy this morning!" Lisa was startled to find Frank Keller in the doorway, his much shorter wife barely visible behind him.

"Mr. Keller!" Lisa cheerfully greeted in her best customer service voice.

"Call me Frank," he insisted. Frank stepped inside to allow his wife a place to stand beside him. "This is my wife, Anna."

"Elise," Lisa introduced herself. As Lisa and Anna shook hands, Anna stared at her curiously. Lisa tried to channel Jackson's mind over matter abilities to make herself belong here and now, to make herself become Elise Roberts.

"You look so familiar," Anna mumbled. Lisa's stomach tightened in a knot. "Did you go to Stoneybrook Middle School with Mary-Anne?"

Lisa laughed. "No, sorry."

"Everyone has their twin, I guess," Anna supposed, brushing off the mistake. Anna was short, perhaps about five foot one, and she was small in size and weight without being overly skinny. Her blond hair was cut short to just under her jaw and she wore stylish glasses that were rectangular in glass cut and rose-colored in frame. Like Frank, she was in her early fifties or so. "We brought you a housewarming gift," Anna said, indicating a large gift bag that Lisa hadn't noticed until then. Anna gestured to Frank and he obediently went outside to collect the rest from the front porch.

"You shouldn't have," Lisa stated sweetly, accepting the gift bag before struggling to take the giant basket of fruit and treats that Frank unloaded on her. She drew the line at trying to handle the potted plant that Frank seemed to want to pass to her as well. She shuffled on her feet as she shifted the giant basket in her hands. It easily filled up her arms. Lisa felt a hand at the small of her back.

"Frank," Jackson greeted, shaking hands with the former cop. Frank forwarded the potted plant to Jackson, who received it in disbelief.

"This is—" Jackson began, stealing a peek at Lisa over their respective gifts. "You _really_ didn't have to," he diplomatically settled for saying, forcing a friendly smile.

"Welcome to the neighborhood. I'm Anna, by the way," Anna announced while extending her hand. Jackson tightened his one-arm grip on the plant and took her hand.

"A pleasure to finally meet you, Anna."

"Don't make any plans for dinner tonight because you're coming to our house, no excuses. Six o'clock." Anna was very grounded and Lisa couldn't help recognizing a few bits of her grandmother Henrietta in Anna's personality. When both women wanted something a certain way, it couldn't be avoided. Like it or not. Usually _not_.

"So—" Frank clapped his hands together once as he glanced around the house. "How can we help?"

"Oh no, no, we're fine. You don't need—" Lisa started, but stopped as she had to adjust the weight in her hands again.

"It's not that much and we have a game plan. We're all set," Jackson contended, hoping to talk the neighbors out of being so gosh darn neighborly.

"Are you planning a garden?" Anna pressed, completely ignoring their protests.

Lisa and Jackson exchanged looks. They weren't planning a garden until it seemed like they could distract Anna and Frank with creating one for them. "No, not really, no," Lisa admitted.

The delivery men asked for them to clear the doorway and the two couples parted. "We could leave you two to the house and we can start working on the outside for you. Do you have any shrubs or flowers coming in?" Anna was relentless.

"No, we didn't—"

"We'll run down to the nursery and see what'll work for this place. We can talk about it over dinner tonight," Anna enthusiastically scheduled. As she and Frank were leaving, Frank waved over his shoulder to bid them goodbye.

After they had left, Jackson and Lisa stood in the same place, still awkwardly holding their gifts. They looked to each other. "Wow," Lisa soundlessly mouthed to him.

They put the heavy objects down on the kitchen counter. Lisa studied the contents through the clear plastic wrap that enclosed the large gift basket. "Brownies, muffins, fruit, cookies, some kind of little cakes, chocolate covered raisins, berries, and everything else that can be covered in chocolate. We're going to be diabetic by Wednesday," she foretold grimly.

"Is this an oak tree?" he pondered, drawing Lisa's attention to the potted plant. It seemed to have a tree base on it and the leaves certainly possessed oak-like qualities. "Who gives an oak tree as a potted plant?" Bright colors on a lot of ribbons and tissue paper caught his eye. "What's that?"

Lisa took the bag's handles off her wrist. "Don't know," she said, placing it on the counter. She pulled out the streamers littering the top, removed all of the multi-colored tissue paper that had been meticulously color coded and layered into the bag, and then felt inside for the prize. Lisa removed a beautiful picture frame that was made from real silver, gold, and crystal. It was heavy, suggesting it was created from top quality materials. "Oh my God," she breathed. The frame was gorgeous. A fictional bride and groom were inside the frame, showing off their best undiscovered model smiles.

"This is too much," Lisa asserted, passing the frame to Jackson for him to inspect it. She spun around and leaned back against the counter, her eyes scanning the area for delivery men who might be close enough to hear them talk. "We're not even married. This is not real. We shouldn't be accepting things like this," she protested in a loud whisper.

Jackson wrapped the frame in the abundance of tissue paper to help protect it from accidental damage. He inched closer to Lisa and faced her. He leaned in, not caring to maintain any boundaries of personal space. "We will accept this. This is real. We are married. The moment you don't agree to any of that is the moment we get caught and killed. We have to live the story. You are Elise Roberts and I am your loving husband Jack. It might seem like we're safe out here, but one false move and it's all over." Jackson rushed away from her and resumed helping the delivery men, directing them upstairs to the bedrooms.

* * *

Lisa ran her hands over her midsection and then her hips and thighs. She angled sideways and analyzed the situation from that direction instead. She smoothed her hair down again, twirling her fingers through the front to keep it from being totally flat. She had ironed out the natural curl in her hair and left it straight because the media had showed the world what she looked like with impeccable curls rather than straight hair. She reached up and evened out her long bangs to hang in her face. She thought about it a moment and then used her fingers to push them to the sides.

"You have a mirror, you know," Jackson commented from his spectator spot in her bedroom doorway. "Two, actually. One in the bathroom and one inside the closet door." He knew there was no way she would use any mirror in the house more than was strictly necessary, and when she did use mirrors, she kept it quick and focused on any area except for her eyes.

"How do I look?" she asked, spinning around to face him, her fists balled up at her side like a nervous high school girl before the big dance. She had on a knee-length floral dress with thick straps that hung over her shoulder just a smidge, giving the false illusion of a mini-sleeve. The dress had a good flow to it and swayed about femininely when she moved. Her feet were adorned with the same black stilettos she wore in Switzerland.

"Fine." He was a natural husband, having already mastered the art of apathy. Lisa was not surprised that he wore his dark blue suit and light blue shirt. He predictably omitted the tie from the ensemble and that would help keep it casual. His hair was combed back neatly but not perfectly, and locks hung at different angles and beckoned her to straighten them.

"Did you get the wine?" she questioned, sitting on the bed and readjusting her shoe strap.

Jackson held up the bottle indifferently. "Good enough to say we care, bad enough to say we're middle class and can't afford the really good stuff." It was perfectly imperfect in his book and that was all part of the attention he paid to detail on a job. He made sure everything was in character, even the food and beverages, clothing, and basic inanimate objects. Everything played a part and he ensured that they played their parts well. "Do you remember what we discussed?"

Lisa nodded as she switched feet and adjusted the other shoe's strap. After the delivery men had left that morning, she and Jackson practiced their life story while arranging the furniture, installing the appliances, setting up the electronics, and washing their new bedding and towels (that arrived mid-afternoon via UPS and FedEx). They conversed in various play acting scenarios to test one another's response quality, quantity, and time. He taught her how saying less was more, saying more was suspicious, and saying too much detail was a dead giveaway. He instructed her on how to control her breathing and facial tics as she gave her answers, how much time between words and sentences was too much, and how to casually take control of the conversation when it was heading south.

"Follow my lead," he reiterated. "Keep the emotions out of it and play the emotions you want them to see. Resist the urge to relate to them personally. They are tools for our use. They're part of the job, Leese, nothing more."

She stood up and claimed her purse from the upholstered chair that sat just shy of the window. "Was that the same speech you gave yourself about me?"

"Which time?" Jackson switched off her bedroom light for her as she passed by him and led their way downstairs.

"Pick one."

"The first time, yes."

Lisa stopped one step below him. "And the second?" she prompted, addressing him above her.

"I've worked jobs with a partner before."

"We really are partners?"

"We are."

When the two arrived at the front door, Lisa reached out for it, but Jackson caught her hand. He set the bottle of wine down at his feet. "We forgot to do something else for our cover," he began, his free hand disappearing into his pocket. He took out a plain gold band—a wedding band. When he did so, Lisa saw that he was already wearing his. "If you'd prefer something more sparkly, we can do that, but I took you for a basic gold kind of girl." Lisa hardly ever wore jewelry and Jackson remembered that from their first meeting. She wore a watch habitually, something she had done every day of her life since she learned to tell time as a little girl. At most, she might wear a simple gold necklace, but he had never seen her wear a ring. She probably considered it an impediment to her ability to type and conduct administrative work around the hotel. "Want me to put it on for you?" Jackson dared. Lisa was so dazed by all of it that she nodded before she realized what he had actually asked. His hands were cold from the chilled wine and from being a cold man inside, so when he slid the metal band onto her finger, its touch, by comparison, seemed warmer than he did.

"I now pronounce us—" Their eyes locked. "—Jack and Elise Roberts."

* * *

Frank and Anna weren't as nosy, annoying, and obnoxious as they had first seemed. Lisa liked them and even Jackson had to admit that he liked them, too. They had been a little over the top in their friendliness, but beneath the show and tell was a couple of empty-nesters who were desperate for something to do and someone new with whom they could connect.

Lisa and Anna retreated to the kitchen with the dishes while the men continued their conversation about muscle cars. "You should come down to the police track with me some time," Frank suggested. "I still have enough clout there that it shouldn't be a problem."

"An Explorer is hardly race worthy of the 'Vette," Jackson lamented.

"Maybe we could soup up the Mustang," Frank mused aloud. "It might be a baby car compared to the Corvette, and they definitely don't make them like they used to, but we might can make her sport worthy. Let's go check her out," Frank said, standing up from the table. Jackson took off his jacket, put it on the back of his chair, and followed him through the kitchen and out the back door. As he passed by Lisa, she appeared like she was bored out of her mind in her conversation with Anna.

Frank took Jackson to the separate garage/workshop that was behind the house. It was large, perhaps almost the size of the first floor of Frank's house. He had the vintage and fully restored (with a _few _adjustments) 1986 silver Corvette parked off to the side by itself, and his green Dodge truck, his wife's silver Kia Optima, and his black Mustang were parked on the other side for everyday use.

Frank nabbed two beer bottles out of the old but functional refrigerator. He passed one to Jackson and the two sat on the stools in front of the work desk. "Kristy, my youngest, had to have a new car senior year because all the other spoiled brats had a Mustang and using her Mom's old Pontiac Grand Am wasn't good enough. We got her the Mustang on end of the year clearance and she didn't want it because it wasn't red and it wasn't the upcoming year's model. She went off to college and used her scholarship money for a new yellow Camaro…just like Bumblebee." Frank shook his head in disgust. At least his two eldest daughters had turned out just fine, more or less.

"2010?" Jackson asked, rewinding the discussion back to the Mustang.

"2009," Frank corrected. "We don't use it. I take it for a spin every now and then to keep it running, but I don't have any use for it. We were talking about selling it, but that's such a hassle." Frank paused to take a swig of beer.

"How much are you asking for it?"

Frank shrugged. "Haven't given it much thought. Why? You interested?"

It was Jackson's turn to shrug. He took a sip of his beer. "My first car was a Mustang. My father taught me how to drive on it." A memory just as sharp as if it had been yesterday filled Jackson's mind. He could picture Samuel taking him out to the Company's track to teach him how to drive. It was a twisted take on the father/son bonding experience that American men had celebrated for generations, as Samuel was nothing more than his mentor in the business. At that time, Jackson could drive, but he didn't know how to drive for his life. He didn't know how to use the car to escape and evade, or how to attack and destroy. The car was a weapon and Samuel taught Jackson how to operate the weapon.

"How about nine thousand?" Frank offered, shaking Jackson from his reverie.

* * *

The men returned to the house twenty minutes later to find the women comfortably chatting in the living room while some low-volume music played in the background. Lisa regarded Jackson sheepishly when he came in smiling and seemingly happy. Frank took the chair to the side of Anna's seat, and Jackson and Lisa shared the end of the couch.

"We were talking about the garden," Lisa softly told Jackson, sending him a death glare for leaving her alone. He put his arm around her on the back of the couch and she remained stiffly positioned.

"I was telling Elise about the oak tree we gave you," Anna said. "When Frank and I got married, my parents planted a tree in their yard for us. Every year when we visited my parents for Christmas, we'd check on the tree and see how large it had gotten. The tree was kind of symbolic for our marriage." Anna looked to Frank. "It grew larger, older, stronger, but it was still just as alive as it was the first day of our life together." The older couple reached out from their respective seats and joined hands. They were lost in their own moment as Jackson and Lisa uneasily shifted.

"You two seem a little less open about your relationship," Anna critiqued unexpectedly. Frank seemed embarrassed by her out of character brashness, but he was also very curious as well. "I mean, usually couples your age are either covered with kids crawling all over them or they are all over each other. You seem…" Anna couldn't find a word, but her sad expression vocalized her thoughts better than mere words could.

"We're very private," Lisa answered simply enough. It was a poor answer.

"We're not really emotional people," Jackson elaborated, shooting Lisa an angry look at her taking the lead after he told her not to do so. "Leese is not very big on public displays of affection and I don't like talking about my feelings." Jackson dropped his arm from behind her to wrap it around her shoulder. "We shouldn't work out at all. We're so much alike that we seem to repel one another like wrong-sided magnets. It's a wonder we haven't killed each other yet," he laughed, and Frank and Anna joined in with him. Jackson peered into Lisa's eyes and compelled her to keep his gaze. "But despite it all, we've been together six years and we trust each other with our lives. She's the only goodness I've ever known and I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for her. I can honestly say that she's all I have in this world."

Lisa was mesmerized by his storytelling prowess. She almost bought it like a bay breeze at an airport bar.

"Aww," Anna squealed, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Is that Glenn Miller?" Jackson wondered abruptly. Lisa resisted the urge to sigh out of gratitude when Jackson changed the subject.

"It is," Anna answered, beaming. "You know Glenn Miller?" Frank rolled his eyes and Lisa smiled uncomfortably. She had no clue what was happening.

Jackson chuckled. "My mother had me dancing to it before I could even walk."

Anna slapped Frank's arm. "See, real men _do _dance!" Anna stood up and indicated for Jackson to join her at the shelves across the room that housed the stereo system and her music collection. Frank went into the kitchen to get some drinks for everyone and Lisa volunteered to help him.

"I can't believe you like this kind of music. If I'm a little young for it, then you're impossibly young for it," she insisted.

"No, I grew up on this kind of music. Big bands, Motown, the one-hit wonder teen bands of the 50's and 60's, Doo-Wop, classic cool Rock and Roll before it became about long-haired rockers. I love this stuff." Jackson flipped through Anna's vinyl records and selected one, admiring it nostalgically. He set up the player and put the needle down. Melodies from a now nearly-forgotten era filled the room.

"This music is made for dancing and Frank won't dance with me. I bet you dance with Elise."

Jackson's attention was redirected from the vinyl records to the CDs on the shelf below. "Hardly. She doesn't even know I can dance. Aside from just saying so a few minutes ago, that is," he elaborated. The tracks changed and a peppier tune came on. "Want to cut a rug?"

Anna giggled as Jackson took her in his arms and the two started doing an amateur, slower-paced jive. There wasn't much free room in the living room, but there was enough as long as they didn't act too crazy. Jackson was spinning her under his arm when Frank and Lisa came in, and the astonishment on Lisa's face was worth it. The duo stopped dancing and Anna ran to Frank's side. "Honey, I love you, but we have to get a divorce." She took a gulp of the martini he gave her. "Jack can dance."

"You really do know how to dance," Lisa quietly mentioned as she moved to Jackson's side, passing him a martini.

"I really did dance with my mother," was his clipped answer, tinged with a bit of grumpiness. He didn't want to discuss the matter, at their present location—or at all.

"What happened to 'resist the urge to relate to them personally'?"

Jackson scowled at her behind his martini glass.

"The night's still young," Frank declared. "Let's push some of the furniture aside."

Lisa watched as they opened up the floor. She was pretty sure that she had fallen into the rabbit hole, or through the looking glass, or even into a particularly trippy episode of _The Twilight Zone_ after several glasses of wine, a massive Irish-Italian meal, the rich chocolate cake, and the martini. Jackson could dance—_he was dancing_. Anna and Frank were acting like glorified teenagers. Lisa felt like an impostor, intrusively stalking them from behind the mask of a friend. She was a depressed Jane Goodall among the local primates. She could play act with them, but she wasn't one of them. She downed her martini and plopped back on the couch. Jackson and Anna were dancing, but he quickly bowed out and traded her back to her husband for a partner. Jackson went to the couch and extended a hand to the sour Lisa. "Do the job," he whispered.

Lisa took his hand and allowed him to drag her to the unofficial dance floor of the Keller residence. The current song was an up-tempo one and, unlike the Glenn Miller music, it had lyrics. It was something Lisa had heard before in a movie or something, but she couldn't name the tune or artist. It was fast and she was not good at fast dancing. "I thought you were a dancer," Jackson teased her.

"Ballet. Contemporary. Figure skating. I don't jitterbug or whatever this is," she complained as she struggled to mimic his movements.

"It's the Lindy Hop, actually…"

"I didn't know you could even do something like this," she declared again. Jackson wasn't a great dancer. There wasn't a chance of ever seeing him on _So You Think You Can Dance_, but he was able to do it and have fun with it, and surprisingly enough, he did look like he may have been having legitimate fun.

"You never know what you'll need for a job," he rationalized, reminding her that the Jackson she knew was still in there.

The song changed and Lisa exhaled. "Glad that's over with," she rejoiced. Her joy was short-lived as a slow song, Elvis Presley's "Don't," started to play. Jackson kept her hands in his, so he merely pulled her into his arms. She flew into his grasp so suddenly that she collided into him, her hand accidentally resting in the middle of his chest. As if moving the limbs of a doll, he masterfully repositioned her limp body to where they could hold each other and sway to the soft song. His hand had started out relatively high on her back, but as the song progressed, it slid down more and more, at last stopping in the lower slope of her back.

She didn't take her eyes off of his, nor did she blink, as he led them in unmeasured, gentle motions. She had held her body as far from his as their dancing permitted, but she felt herself being drawn by some unseen, unknown force to press against him fully. She was stunned to find that she actually felt more at ease when her body finally found its place molded with his, moving in sync with his rhythm, and feeling all of him touching her in a way that she had never known in an encounter as relaxed and non-demanding as this one. They had undergone their fair share of intimate contact in which their bodies connected with one another, but it had always been in violent meetings, scenarios that were so impersonal that there was no room for any reaction other than disgust. Lisa wasn't disgusted as she gave herself permission to lean forward and drop her chin on his shoulder so her head could rest against his.

When the song was over, Jackson released her. He noted that the disappointed look on her face when they separated from one another proved how far her acting ability had come. Jackson was proud of her, but he mentally disciplined himself for enjoying having her in his arms while she clearly loathed it yet played along. He had preached the importance of focusing on the job, yet here he was remembering how her hair smelled.

"We should call it a night," Jackson announced to Frank and Anna.

They returned the furniture to where it should be and said their goodnights. Anna sent them off with plenty of leftover food to eat for breakfast, lunch, _and_ dinner the next day.

The two walked home side by side in silence. Jackson opened the door and let Lisa enter before him. He locked the door as she shoved the leftovers into their new, and otherwise empty, refrigerator. They journeyed upstairs one by one with Jackson in the lead, crawled into their own respective beds, and settled down for what would surely be a sleepless night, the loneliest one in over a month.

* * *

**TBC…**

* * *

**Author's Note 1:** As we transition from the introduction arc of the story into the main body, I'd like to take a moment to express my gratitude. Many thanks to those who have taken the time to review and share such kind feedback with me. Any feedback (the good, the bad, the ugly) is welcomed here. I also want to thank the regular readers who loyally follow this story week to week. You may or may not leave your comments behind, but you keep coming back for more and I hope I am not mistaken when I take that as a good thing. You might just come back to get your weekly laughs from this story-well, that's okay too! :) Thank you all for your support and I hope this story never lets you down.

* * *

**Author's Note 2:** I don't use characters as my own personal mouthpiece, but the scene involving the fortune cookies is inspired by real life. My fortunes always come true and I'm not superstitious, but I have come to accept it as a freakish fact that cannot be explained by reason. The two fortunes used in this story were from two cookies that I received after dining out with someone who doesn't like fortune cookies. I mentally vowed that both my fortune and my dining companion's fortune would be used for the story no matter what they said, and when I opened them, I almost dropped dead from pure shock. They could not have been more appropriate for this story if I had written them myself.


	8. Ch 7: The Writing on the Wall

**Chapter 7: The Writing on the Wall**

* * *

**September, 2011**

At midnight, Jackson watched the time on his bedside clock switch from 11:59 p.m. in August to 12 a.m. in September. Sleep refused to come to him and it was all to blame on the debilitating presence of Lisa Reisert. The woman was hell-bent on destroying him however she could and he was fairly certain that she was completely unaware of what she was doing to him. He often wondered if she knew the power she held in their dynamic, but judging by her endless melancholy, she did not have the slightest clue.

Jackson slid out of bed. He tugged on a pair of black sweat pants and a dark green shirt. Carefully, he cracked open his bedroom door without a sound and sneaked down the stairs.

There were a few delivery boxes left in the living room, so he quickly relocated them to the laundry room. One of the boxes contained the paint and supplies that Lisa had ordered from Lowe's. She had vowed to vanquish the white walls from the house and replace them with who knew what color, and that was her business. When she felt like doing it, her materials would be ready for her in a different room and out of their way. One package, a relatively small parcel by comparison, came from Office Depot. Jackson expertly popped the box lids open from the aggressive tape that had secured them and surveyed the contents.

* * *

Lisa rolled over and groaned when she realized it was 3 a.m. As usual, she had failed to achieve a good night's sleep, and seeing Jackson dance like a semi-normal person had affected her sleep pattern even more. It was disturbing to witness someone so inhuman appear human, even if it had been simply a momentary blip. There was a backstory that Lisa was determined to uncover, but how she could go about doing that was beyond her. On a few occasions, she had attempted to connect with Jackson on a personal level, but he ignored the notion and proceeded onward in his usual stoic way. For some reason, the image of a little boy with dark hair and bright blue eyes wiggling and waving his arms about as an anonymous, faceless mother encouraged him and danced along entered Lisa's mind. Jackson's issues clearly suggested that his father was the problem and his mother was—_something else_. Lisa could not quite piece that part together. His philosophies on women had to come from somewhere and the only reasonable place she could figure was from a mother who had somehow betrayed him.

She scooted to the foot of the bed and twisted around so her feet could find the carpeted floor. She pulled down the legs of her capri pajama bottoms that had ridden up and straightened her t-shirt before running her hands through her long, inconsistently curly hair in an attempt to tame it into being presentable.

Lisa gently tapped her knuckles to Jackson's door and it moved inward a little. She pushed it open and saw that his bed was empty. She had not heard any sounds, so she assumed that there wasn't any trouble in the house. For the first time in recent memory, she resisted the urge to go on the offensive and instead settled for padding quietly down the stairs.

As her feet delicately fell against the cold black and white checkered tile of the kitchen, Lisa's eyes began to focus on the figure in the dining room that was illuminated only by the hazy golden glow of the tall three-bulb corner lamp. Jackson stood at the white wall, a black permanent marker in his hand, as he drew a line connecting one set of words to another a few feet away. The closer Lisa walked to the dining room, the more it all came into vision. In the center of the wall were two names: Jackson Rippner and Lisa Reisert. Their pictures, fresh from their new printer, were on the wall to illustrate their names. Dozens of lines and sub-categories ventured off from Jackson's name: the Company, S, Anzalone, the Piper, and many others. Jackson and Lisa had a line connecting them that gave the information about their flight, Keefe, the Lux Atlantic, Dallas, and Miami. Lisa's name spawned off lines that contained information about her father, her mother, her grandmother, her brothers, the Lux Atlantic (again), and even Josh.

The safe house was the only secure place they had to hide and to think, and if the safe house were ever violated, that meant they were both dead. They had nothing to lose by using the wall as their private notebook because it was in the same boat as Jackson and Lisa. If they fell, the house fell. If the house fell, they fell. As for any visitors, Jackson was sure he could avoid surprise guests through pure Managerial skill. So far, Frank and Anna had not made it past the threshold of the living room. He was not about to let them get that far again. Even if someone did stop at the front door, as long as the kitchen and dining room lights were off, their secret work would remain concealed in the darkness.

"You've been busy," Lisa softly said, her voice barely audible in the echoing dead calm of the night.

The marker made a horrible squeaking noise as Jackson drew another line and Lisa cringed. "It's the first of September. We really can't put this off any longer. We have everything we need, so it's time to do the job." Jackson never bothered looking away from his notes to acknowledge her. He crossed his arms, careful not to mark himself with ink, and he backed up a few feet to study his work. It covered almost half of the wall and that was just the basics he could think of on the spur of the moment.

"How long have you been at it?" Lisa asked as she moved to stand behind Jackson. He could feel heat from her body and that told him without looking that she was standing too close to him. He instinctively took a step away and it did not go unnoticed by Lisa. Encounters like this left her puzzled. At times, it seemed he was avoiding the temptation of the first female he had shared familiar quarters with in years, while at other times, it seemed like an undercurrent of resentment still tainted their interactions despite their truce. Yet at other times, such as in this instance, it made no sense at all.

"Since around midnight." He put his hand to his jaw, cupping his chin in contemplation. Lisa's tired eyes surveyed him. His face showed signs of exhaustion and his stubble made him look weary. The muscles at the back of his chiseled jaw clinched as he contemplated the information in front of him. His eyes were intense, like a hawk planning a method of attack that was more complicated than a mere dive, swoop, and capture.

"I couldn't sleep either," Lisa confided as if they were two friends sharing confidences. "To be honest, I've been avoiding this." Jackson was not sure what she was referring to until he stole a glance her way and saw her admiring his work on the wall. "I've thought about it off and on, but I usually just end up feeling frustrated. My mind has been so focused on our survival that I'm still in escape mode."

Her hair was down and they weren't on a job, so that in itself was unusual. He had noted that her hair was always hidden (unless she was playing a part) and now it wasn't. It was loose, exposed and vulnerable to him.

"That's what this has been to you the entire time. An escape." Lisa was baffled by his word choice, as "an escape" sounded more optimistic, like a vacation. "You tried the hiding technique for six years, but nothing has worked as well as the escape technique. You are alone with the man you loathe, yet you feel more like yourself than you have in years. You feel…_safe_," he suggested with a self-assurance that irked Lisa.

"I'm not in the mood to be psychoanalyzed by the psycho." She tucked her hair behind her ears and remembered that her hair was down. It was the tell that had given her away to Jackson. Perhaps his All Seeing Eye wasn't as mystical and almighty as she had originally believed. She had given far too much credit to his puppet master ways when he was nothing more than a practitioner of common sense and parlor tricks.

"Sarcasm has become your method of avoidance," he continued with a small smile of accomplishment as her pale skin became red in embarrassment and irritation.

"You're one to talk about escaping and avoiding," she shot back, redirecting the discussion toward him.

"I escaped in the most literal sense of the word. What's your point?"

"Why? How? I know there was an explosion and fire, but…after six years? Who helped you? Why now and not years earlier?"

Jackson shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest again. "The time was right."

"Someone helped you. Who? Why?"

"Are you worried that I might be the one the Company sent to kill you?"

Lisa put her hands on her hips. "I'm immune to your attempts at scaring me. Just answer the damn question for once."

"Okay, fine. I escaped because a friend of mine told me you were in danger because you know something and that I should go to you."

"So saving my life, working with me—all of this is because someone gave you an order? An assignment?" Jackson was positive that he was imagining things because her voice seemed weak, as if she were bothered by the prospect of being unloaded onto him by someone else. Coming to her wasn't his choice. Stealing her wasn't his choice. His mind was divided, with half taking her words at face value and half translating her words as, _So, is that all I am to you: an assignment?_

"No," he answered in a way that clearly communicated his opinion on the absurdity of her question. "He told me because he knew I would want to know. At the time, you were still an _issue _for me." He dared to peek her way and saw that her eyes were less weighed down by sleep and her lips were slightly parted. "You were the job I didn't finish. If someone was going to finish the job for me, they would have to get through me first," he smoothly elaborated, not missing a beat. "You were _my _job." It was a typical Jackson answer through and through. Lisa seemed to accept the explanation, but she wasn't pleased with it. Jackson, however, was quite satisfied with it. It said everything he had to say, but nothing that he wanted to say.

Lisa looked to the writing on the wall. It was so much and so overwhelming, and this was only the beginning, the barest hint of an outline that the two of them would fill in together. Lisa's sight again drifted away from the wall and to him. He stared at the writing with the unwavering dedication of a stone gargoyle atop a building. He was far more fascinating to her right now than the mysteries that they weren't even confident they could solve. His jawbone rocked out of position before locking into place, the muscles at the back once again twitching. He bit down on his lip, studiously attentive to the job spelled out before him. Despite not working out for over two months, he was still larger in size than he had been six years ago. He was an attractive man to begin with, but age and exercise made him even more appealing. Lisa had to remind herself from time to time that he might look good and seem good, but he was junk food: unhealthy, artificial, and all around bad for her.

Her observation of him trailed down to his neck and there she discerned how his hair had grown longer than he probably wanted given the appearance he had decided to keep as a disguise. Without thinking, Lisa's fingers reached up and crawled their way into the hair at the base of his skull, her short nails wandering through the strands and lightly scratching his scalp. His hair had always looked soft and when she had touched it for the first time to cut it, she realized it was indeed silky. Even after years in prison, his hair had remained touchable. Most men had dry, coarse hair, but not him. It was another part of his angelic exterior, the image that seemed innocent and divine, but was in fact guilty and damned.

Lisa felt warmth on her arm and she snapped back to the present when she noticed that Jackson had turned his head to face her as her fingers continued to rake through his hair. His scratchy cheek was touching the bare skin of her arm as he impassively gazed down at her. "You need a haircut," she pathetically stated, drawing back her arm. She wasn't sure what to do with her arms, so she tried putting them at her sides, then her hands on her hips, and she finally settled for crossing them like Jackson. The dubious expression he shot her way didn't help her discomfort and awkwardness any. She was fourteen all over again. "I guess since our story is no longer a top headline, you can finally get a professional haircut."

"You did a good job. I might just hire you again." Lisa avoided the deep stare of his blue eyes.

"Well, growing up, my dolls always had the most stylish haircuts on the block," she proclaimed with a small laugh.

"I don't doubt it. Maybe we can do something about your hair, too," he mused, running his fingers through her long locks where her hair was parted to the side. His fingers combed through several small sections and freed them from being shoved behind her ear. He looped an imperfectly wavy curl around his index finger and traced it to the end. Lisa started to shuffle uncomfortably, her head facing downward to avoid him. "You can't possibly think I hadn't noticed how you hide your hair." She remained silent. "Or why you do it."

"It's long. It gets on my nerves." She had always kept it around shoulder-length, give or take. Now it was down to the start of her lower back.

"People don't keep long hair when it bothers them. They keep it for fashion or vanity…or fear. It's something that is theirs, like a burden or a weight, and they can't get rid of it, but they can't tolerate seeing it as part of them. That's what yours is, isn't it." Lisa detected the distinct lack of a question mark at the end of his statement, his declaration, his not-a-question remark. He was telling her, not asking her, not unlike how he had first responded to her scar.

"I said I would cut it, remember? You told me not to in case I needed to change it later," she reminded him, ignoring his deductions about her so that they would be rendered moot by her apparent indifference.

Even in the poor lighting of the predominately dark house, Jackson could make out the faintest hint of a line where Lisa's natural auburn hair color was growing back. No one else would have spotted that detail but him. For the eight weeks he watched her, he saw a dark silhouette every single time except when her golden hair would occasionally catch light and sparkle for him to see. She was a treasure on a distant shore then, and now she was perhaps even more untouchable. He regretfully released his gentle grasp on her hair and returned his arms-crossed devotion to the writing on the wall as if nothing had happened between them.

Lisa caught his contagious case of denial and revisited the central matter at hand. "Jackson," she began with a sigh, "I'm sorry, but I don't know anything."

"You do," he insisted without hesitation. "And we're going to figure it out." Lisa exhaled dejectedly, and she rubbed at her eyes and forehead. "Grab a pen," he ordered.

* * *

An hour later, the wall had expanded significantly after Lisa added information about everyone from her father to Josh. Most of it was irrelevant and offered no connections to anything, but it did raise several questions for Jackson. "Did Josh initiate contact with you?"

"No, I called him for lessons."

"So that's what you kids call it these days."

"If you want to call learning to fight while picturing _your _face a form of foreplay, then yeah, I used him for 'lessons.'"

Jackson chuckled, pleased at her ability to give and take with him. "But seriously," he resumed, "Josh is rather strange, don't you think?"

"How so?"

He dropped the arm that held the pen. "Come on, Leese," he said, waving his arm as he spoke. "What are the odds that Mr. Perfect just happened to come into your life right around the time the Company discovered your mysterious knowledge?"

"How do we know when they discovered my 'mysterious knowledge'?" Jackson didn't react, leaving the proverbial ball in Lisa's court. "You just want to blame Josh for something." He raised his eyebrows, shooting her a suspicious look.

Lisa considered it, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't picture Josh as Company material. Then again, he was surprisingly like a well-adjusted version of Jackson, the Jackson that might have been if his life had taken a different turn. Both men spoke forwardly, Josh with a smile and Jackson with disarming control and charm. Both men could read her quite well and use that to their advantage. Both refused to submit to her terms and instead forced her to submit to their terms, using the excuse that Lisa wasn't ready and they were only waiting for her benefit. Both men made Lisa take a few minutes outside of her shell and in the real world, helping her feel like a bona fide person instead of an outsider looking at a village in a snow globe. Both had the initials J.R., not unlike her own father, Joe Reisert.

"Oh, this is insane!" Lisa shouted. "No, Josh is not part of the Company. Stop making me second guess everything!"

"You can't second guess what you didn't first guess," Jackson smoothly replied, his attention again on the information on the wall. His rational words hit Lisa like a cold splash of water. She had taken Josh for granted, supposing that because contact had been her idea, things were safe and she was in charge. Josh had pursued her with acute interest despite being pushed away. He had been so sweet and endearing. Lisa shook her head to herself and refused to accept that poor innocent Josh had been anything other than real.

"I'm making eggs. Want any?" Lisa asked abruptly as she shoved the cap onto her pen and dropped it on the floor with the other pens, tape, and various office supplies. They hadn't unpacked the dishes and utensils that they had ordered, but Lisa had unpacked the frying pan. It was almost like a security blanket. She hadn't cooked eggs at night in years, not since meeting Jackson, but she always kept a pan for eggs just in case. Eggs, bread, peanut butter, and jelly were the only food items in the safe house aside from the leftovers that Anna had forced upon them. They needed to go shopping, but for now, they had eggs and that was enough.

Jackson's eyes widened. "Eggs, again? I thought you broke that yoke, if you will," he brazenly wrapped his disbelief in a lame pun. From what he knew thanks to Samuel's reports, it had been years since Lisa had felt the compulsion to cook eggs at ridiculous times of the night and morning, yet here she was, falling into old routines.

"I think they might be making a comeback."

* * *

As Lisa ate her scrambled eggs out of the skillet, Jackson sat down across from her at the island in the center of the kitchen. He placed the laptop in front of them.

"I arranged a budget for us."

"Us?" she repeated. "I have no money. I live off the charity of my alleged kidnapper," she kidded.

"Lucky for you, your alleged kidnapper is a generous one. I've divided up the money, permitting us both a reasonable monthly allowance, a joint allowance for things we share—food, upkeep on the house, and so on—and an emergency fund in case we have to run for it. The bulk of our money is there because we don't know what we'll need if we have to leave." Lisa was startled by the notion of having to run again. It seemed unfair somehow, as if she and Jackson had passed enough tests already and that should have qualified them for immunity from future trials. They had earned their exodus into this domestic refuge and the idea of someone finding them and forcing them away from it left her feeling defenseless, almost naked.

Jackson rotated the computer and Lisa studied the Excel spreadsheet. "We can make it two years off the spending budget, obviously longer if we use the emergency fund, but I have to tell you, I'm not keen on that idea." That was the polite way of saying it. What Jackson was really saying was that there was no way he was going to touch their emergency fund because they needed that back-up plan just in case, and he was never without a plan. He knew that. Lisa knew that.

"Neither am I," she concurred. "I agree. We won't touch the emergency fund." She scanned over the numbers and she recognized that Jackson was equitable with his allotment of the money. In fact, the numbers were more than equitable—they were exactly equal. When he told Lisa that he had developed a budget, she naturally assumed that she would receive none of it, so discovering that she been given a share equal to his own was more than a little shocking for her. "Don't feel like you have to share with me."

"I don't _feel_ like I _have _to do anything," he sincerely replied. "It's the only logical solution. You've been removed from your life and job, and it would be unfair for me to leave you financially reliant on whatever I allow you to have. You are entitled to your independence."

Jackson had always struck Lisa as the type who would act as the alpha male of the household, the _Father Knows Best _incarnate with far more condescending and misogynistic undertones. When she learned they would be playing house together, her speculation was that he would set the rules, have her manage the house, and keep her under his finger like a pre-women's rights movement housewife. Seeing him share his house and money with her of his own free will because it was the "fair" thing to do once again contributed to Lisa's revisionist view of the monster she thought she knew. The misogynist was actually quite the modern metrosexual, not that she would tell him that. All of these new details about who Jackson really was flew in the face of everything she took for granted as being carved in stone.

"Thank you," she said, acknowledging him with steady eye contact. "I appreciate all you've done for me." Six years ago, those words would have never left her mouth and she would have never been able to imagine circumstances when they would. Now, it felt wrong somehow, but it felt more right than wrong. Jackson had been good to her. He took care of her, physically and emotionally (though he would never admit to it). He sheltered her. He made sure she ate, even if he skipped a meal and claimed he wasn't hungry because he was too focused on the job. He shared his house and his money with her. He asked for nothing in return except her dedication to helping him stop the Company.

"Don't thank me for doing the right thing. It wasn't for you. It was because it was right."

"I didn't know you had such high-minded morals."

"I don't," he admitted. "Right and wrong aren't morals. Right is making the correct decision, wrong is not. It's all black and white strategy to me, and this is a pretty clear-cut situation."

Lisa wasn't going to drop this discussion. "Black and white is when you do what has to be done. What you're doing right now by sharing your finances with me is pure gray area. Gray is when you have no reason at all to assure a woman that you would never hurt her. Gray is when you calm down someone who is freaking out on an airplane. Gray is when you order room service and give someone who hated you alone time." Neither noticed her use of the past tense on the word "hate." "Gray is when you dance and have a genuine smile on your face for the first time _ever_." Lisa couldn't help smiling as she remembered how lighthearted Jackson seemed that night, as if he had swapped himself with a younger, less jaded and scarred version of himself.

Jackson stared at her in that distant, alien way that only he could implement. It made her feel like she was under scrutiny for something she had done wrong, so she set the empty skillet in the sink. She turned around to face him from there, the short distance providing a slightly larger comfort zone for her. Jackson reemerged from his daze and shook his head disapprovingly. "Stop trying to find good in me. There's no chance for redemption. You can't save a soul that doesn't exist."

"I don't want to save your soul," she insisted, approaching him. "I just want to remind you that you have one." It took a little courage for Lisa to reach out and put her hand on his upper arm, but once she touched him, it seemed natural and right somehow. She gently rubbed his shoulder, her hand gradually working up to cup the back of his neck. "It might be a little dirty, but it's still there and it's still good. I've seen it. You just have to use it more."

Jackson stood suddenly and Lisa had to take a few clumsy steps back to avoid a collision with him. "I think I prefer you when you're beating me instead of when you're preaching to me," he grumbled as he slammed the laptop lid shut, clutched it under his arm, and retreated to his room upstairs.

* * *

A little after 10 a.m., Lisa felt a hand shake her awake. She jerked into full consciousness as her body unthinkingly responded by sitting up straight. "You slept here?" Jackson asked. He had not yet dressed for the day and neither had she. Lisa had retreated to the dining room after he had fled to his bedroom. She had stared at the writing on the wall until it transformed into a million tiny bugs running around in a blur. Her eyes had started to shut against her will and she found herself surrendering to the beckoning floor. The next thing she knew, Jackson was on one knee in front of her, forcing her to face the light of day.

She repositioned herself on the floor, her legs folded in front of her as she ran her hands over her face and through her hair. "Yeah, I was working on that," she explained, pointing at the latest additions to their notes. Jackson looked at the wall and saw where she had inserted a few subcategories to her side of it. It wasn't anything special—just a little info about Josh, Duke, and her mother's boyfriend Victor.

"Look, about earlier this morning," Jackson began as he dropped down from his kneeling position to sit on the floor in a pose almost identical to Lisa's. "I shouldn't have taken you being _you_ so personally."

Lisa waited patiently for a moment, thinking that there was more coming, and when he didn't say anything else, she gaped at him comically for a few seconds. "_That's it_? That was your version of an apology?"

"I have nothing to apologize for other than letting your Pollyanna meddling get to me. It was a side of you I haven't seen in a while, that 'Service with a Smile, Lisa' attitude. I reacted irrationally when I shouldn't have."

"Huh." She didn't have words for any of this.

"Enough about that. Moving on," he declared for both of them. "We need to finish organizing the house and we should pick up a few groceries."

Lisa felt a small wave of panic sear through the nerves in her body. She hadn't gone shopping in daytime in…ages. "Maybe later, maybe tonight," she suggested. "That way there will be fewer people who could recognize us."

Jackson narrowed his eyes and she could tell that something was cooking in the back of his mind. "Not dangerous enough for you during the day or are you still avoiding the memory?" It was one of those statements that seemed cold and calculating in his head, completely harmless in its scientific curiosity, but once he said it, he could see the offense on her face.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You've been avoiding daylight activities, particularly shopping, and you've become more nocturnal than most people." He was very matter-of-fact, perhaps even more so than usual. She hated when he did that.

"And just how do you know that?" she demanded, crossing her arms protectively while trying to keep her expression hard and resolute.

"You still ask questions when you already know the answer." Lisa remained silent and waited for him to answer anyway. "I've said several times already that you were a problem for me over the years. To solve it, I kept track of you."

Again—it was all happening again. She thought Jackson had grown into a different person, a better man, but apparently some things could never change. She pushed herself off the floor. She turned to exit the room when Jackson, already on his feet as well, grabbed her by the arm. She squirmed to get away, but he forced her to face him.

"You were the job I didn't finish. The woman who made my carefully constructed world crumble in front of my own eyes. I couldn't let go of you after two months of knowing every intimate detail of your life except one. So…I had a friend watch you from time to time just to give me a few details here and there." Lisa huffed and tried to break free, but he held her by both arms and forced her immobile. He didn't know how much longer he could restrain her, so he dragged her aside by the arms to pin her against the wall that was stark white and free from writing. "I may be a sick son of a bitch for obsessively following you for two months, and I might be even more fucked up for having someone monitor you for six years, but you'd be dead if I hadn't kept up with you." The truth, at last, was out in the open for both of them to process. By following Lisa vicariously from afar, Jackson had saved her life.

Lisa felt a rush of cold overwhelm her body, following by a warm flood, then more cold. Her emotional reaction likewise alternated between panic and comfort, fear and security. In a few blinks of an eye, Jackson had switched from the man who had stalked her in the past to her stalker in the present. When he had stalked her previously, he was doing his job, but when he was her stalker in the present, he was feeding an obsessive need that only she alone could cure.

"Why me?" she squeaked out, her voice tiny from her unexpected anxiety.

They both knew he had to keep her under surveillance as part of his job, but the question she asked now was why had his simple observation, something he had done on dozens of occasions before with complete professional detachment, morphed into a personal obsession that couldn't be satiated.

The savage spark in Jackson's icy eyes seemed to calm down like a wild animal recognizing that the zoo cage would not relent to his dominance and power. He now came across as ordinary and perhaps even a little helpless. "You were the only one who could ever understand," he cryptically answered.

Jackson's vice grip on her arms ceased and his hands fell down to his sides. "Understand what?" Lisa pressed, leaning closer to him as he backed away from her.

"That _thing_ we have in common. That unspoken _thing_ that we both experienced that no one would ever understand…that shame we have to conceal because no one could ever realize the severity of it. The feeling, the memory that we live with that makes us powerful, strong, capable survivors, but everyone else would consider us victims and throw sympathy at us like scraps at a dog. We both understand that we can't go back, not ever, no matter what. I saw it in you before I knew…" _Before he knew about the scar…_

None of it made sense to Lisa and she was pretty sure Jackson himself wasn't quite cognizant of what he was saying, yet somehow it did make sense, she did comprehend it, and she did see how they were the only two who could ever understand. That was the same reasoning, more or less, that she had debated about with herself for the last six years. She knew the shame. She knew the haunting memories. She knew the stares of her sympathizers as they attempted to make the victim feel safe when it did nothing more than objectify her as broken and wrong, someone who would never be whole again and instead should enjoy whatever they could give her out of charity.

But the shame, the shame that accompanied every aspect and angle of everything, that shame was the worst of all. No one would understand anything ever—not the Red Eye flight, not her rape, not her isolation from herself and her world, no one would understand but Jackson. That in itself was a tragedy. How he could relate was a story that he refused to share because it would weaken him, make him susceptible to her control and whim. It would break him by making him feel it, relive it, and carry it like a victim rather than the survivor he had become. Despite this, knowing that they shared this mutual understanding was enough.

She swallowed the lump in her dry throat and spoke. "I knew for six years that we were two sides to the same coin, but I didn't like it. I didn't want to admit it or for it to be true, but it is." She felt stronger, more in charge of the moment now that Jackson was looking down, his eyes shut in disgust at his own human frailty showing. "When did you know?"

He looked up, his eyes open and red, not from unshed tears, but from long-buried anguish that was sneaking its way to the surface. "When you cooked eggs and watched _La Belle et la Bête _at 3 a.m." She dimly recalled that evening from approximately two months before the flight. It was probably one of the first times, if not the very first time, he had observed her.

"None of this will end well," she breathed, taking her turn to look downward in avoidance.

He joined her, his head hanging down in a similar state of unintended symbolic mourning. The writing on the wall of the house was new, but the writing on the wall inside his head seemed ancient. It had been there six years in specific detail, but it had been there almost a lifetime in general terms. The writing on the wall of his mind was comprehensive and meticulous, but he chose only to share the words that were written in the largest print. "It's not supposed to end well."

* * *

Several weeks passed and the duo fell into an oddly comfortable routine that only seemed weird whenever they would stop, take a step back, and look at it from a different perspective. They shopped for groceries at night, timing it perfectly so that they would be able to leave the store just before closing when there were fewer people and the employees were so eager to head out that they didn't think twice about the customers. They ordered their clothing online, along with books and whatever other luxury items they could afford with their own individual allowances. They ate with Frank and Anna once a week, perhaps even twice a week for no reason in particular. They enjoyed movies and television together. They stared at the writing on the wall for hours, sometimes adding content like maniacs and other times standing thoughtless, helpless, and hopeless, at the mercy of the wall's intimidation.

A few weeks before, seeing Jackson mow the lawn on a bright red riding mower would have seemed bizarre. Seeing Lisa on her knees in the dirty yard planting shrubs would have seemed peculiar. Seeing them play the happy couple would have been just plain, flat-out wrong. Yet, that was the current state of things.

* * *

"Don't dig so deep," Anna told Lisa as she continued digging her hole. She stopped and picked up the already two foot tall evergreen shrub and put it in position inside the hole. Anna helped her fill in the dirt around it and pat it down. "These should stay beautiful all year, even if we get some snow. We usually don't get much, but you never know these days."

Lisa had never been around snow except during the handful of fluke snowstorms that came through Texas over the years. Their version of snow was like glorified dandruff, but it was considered a natural disaster because Texans didn't know what to do with snow. As for Florida, snow was the mystery material that people bought in bags and spray cans at Christmas and displayed around their trees or in their windows as if it were perfectly realistic.

"Have you given any consideration to a vegetable garden?" Anna asked and the two scooted over a little to the next space they had designated for a shrub. The plan was to surround the front and sides of the house with shrubs to hopefully give the place a more homely feel. They wanted the house to blend in and this was one of the best ways to accomplish such an intention.

"Not really," Lisa replied. "It's a little too late for it, but maybe I'll make up my mind in time for next season."

"Let me know if you want to plan something. We can plant a bunch of things that will keep you in fresh food year-round. You might even decide you want a greenhouse," Anna added enthusiastically. "I've been considering one myself and Frank keeps promising to build it, but you know him and his cars."

Lisa laughed. She knew Frank and Jackson had been bonding during the last few weeks over Frank's black Mustang. The two had gutted the insides from under the hood and started tweaking here and modifying there. Lisa didn't speak "car," but obviously Jackson did and it shocked her. His computer skills weren't surprising because he seemed to have a definitively brainy, nerdy side (something she would never say to his face). She figured cars were too macho and Jackson didn't do "macho." He was a man of intellect and logic. Cars seemed too frivolous and uncultured.

"I guess I'll have to tell Jack that he can't play with Frank until Frank does his homework." Both women chuckled. The lawnmower that Lisa had heard in the background stopped and she knew for a fact that he wasn't finished yet.

"Frank's here," Anna muttered without stretching back to look around at the front of the house. "You'd better lay down the law now if you want your grass mowed sometime this year!"

Lisa rolled her eyes, knowing the statement was true. She put the shrub into the hole and secured the soil around it. A pair of hands gripped her upper arms from behind. She turned her head to look back at Jackson, but she couldn't get a good view of him. "We're going to go work on the car for a while," he softly whispered in her ear. "Be back in a little bit," he promised before leaning forward and kissing her cheek startlingly close to her mouth.

"Okay. See you then," she said, watching Jackson retreat with Frank at his side. He had never kissed her before, but since they were under such intense scrutiny from their neighbors, the only friends they had, Jackson evidently had felt the need to take his performance to the next level. The excuse of not liking public displays of affection could only carry them so far.

* * *

"You're so well trained," Frank mocked Jackson as the two crossed the always empty street.

"Am not," Jackson countered instantly.

"Yeah, right. I have never seen another man who won't leave his wife for just a few minutes without saying goodbye like they're about to board the Titanic."

"Now you're just exaggerating," Jackson declared with a short laugh. The truth of the matter was that he never left Lisa without telling her where he was going, with the notable exception of his secret late-night runs. Other than that, they were never apart without knowing where the other was and for how long they would be gone. It wasn't safe or wise to do it any other way. Jackson knew Frank and Anna were scrutinizing them under a microscope because they were allegedly still a young and cute couple despite being in their mid-thirties. They had to sell that and after weeks of little to no physical contact, Jackson had decided on a whim to throw in the kiss. Lisa, to her credit, carried off the scene beautifully.

It wasn't until Jackson entered the garage behind Frank's house that he comprehended it. Perhaps the goodbye peck was so believable because the pressure they had operated under for so long—the awkwardness, the tension, the discomfort—had all disappeared. The nature of their "relationship," or whatever it was that they had, was certainly changing. Jackson had figured that telling Lisa the truth about how he continued to keep tabs on her from prison would ruin their camaraderie. He had assumed that revealing his innermost conflict regarding the question of "Why Lisa?" would scare her into running. He had believed that nothing would ever be alright, fine, or okay between them ever again, and yet things seemed to be just a little bit better. Lisa had responded in a positive way to either his honesty or his damaged confession. He was not sure which it was, but he would take it.

Frank automatically passed Jackson a beer and the two set out to work on the Mustang.

* * *

"I know we're not close," Anna began cautiously. Lisa stopped digging and gave Anna her full attention. "Frank and Jack have hit it off so well, yet we're barely sociable."

"Anna, please don't think that I—"

Anna held up a firm hand. "No, it's okay. We don't have to be best friends—"

"No," Lisa interrupted. It truly bothered her that Anna felt she didn't like her. "I'm not a very warm person by nature and I don't mean to make you feel like I don't like you. I really, really do like you," Lisa insisted wholeheartedly. For years, Lisa had been warm by nature, but she no longer knew how to do that. Memories of doing it made it seem fake and she was not satisfied by the supposition that she had once been a sincerely good person. She had no clue how to express care or concern for another human being when she couldn't even feel that for herself. It all seemed so pointless and useless now that she knew how the harshness of reality made everything she valued in herself and others completely irrelevant.

Anna smiled tightly as if she didn't believe Lisa, but she would take her word for it for the sake of politeness. "Thank you, and I like you too. And that's why I need to ask this. I know it's forward and I'm probably crossing a lot of lines that I shouldn't cross—"

"Ask," Lisa permitted.

Anna exhaled slowly. "It's about your relationship with Jack." Lisa became nervous. She wiped the back of her dirty hand across her sweaty forehead, smearing a light streak of grime across her pale skin. She was so distracted by the possibilities of what Anna was about to say that it didn't matter to her. "Elise, I'm worried about you," Anna admitted. "Jack works at home and you're always here. You never go out on your own or anywhere without him. When he leaves, he says goodbye to you with this sense of urgency…like you'll never see each other again. And just now," Anna started, not wanting to spell it out further.

"Just now?"

"Just now, he seemed a little…_possessive_."

Lisa contemplated the insinuation behind her words. "You think he's abusing me?" She said it in a raw, blunt way, a way that dared not to imply or answer anything one way or another. "It's nothing like that."

Anna was bothered by it when Lisa worded it that way. "Jack seems like such a nice guy. He doesn't seem like the abusive type. Then again, who does? We all see people every day, but you never know what happens behind closed doors or who people really are." Lisa couldn't help thinking of what Anna's reaction would be when this was over and she eventually found out that the fugitive and his abducted former target were the cute couple next door. "But maybe there's a little too much…control?" Anna wondered aloud. "I know, I know, it's none of my business, but Elise, I'm worried about you. You never have time to yourself and you're always cooped up here."

Lisa picked up her little dirt scoop and slowly resumed moving the soil around so they could insert a new shrub. She stopped and stared at the ground where she had been digging. "I had some problems before I met Jack," Lisa stated distantly. "I wasn't—I was…I had trust issues because of some stuff that had happened. But when I first met Jack, I found someone whose charm made me forget all of the bad and think for just a few seconds that maybe…_just maybe_ there was some good out there." Lisa remembered their brief but magnetic exchange in line at the airport and over drinks as she talked about her grandmother. She remembered the genuine amusement in his eyes as she told him about her grandmother's spunky lifestyle and how he seemed to legitimately respect Henrietta for it.

"Then I realized that there is no good in this world except the good that we make. No one understood how I could see life like that…except Jack." Lisa faced Anna. "He is the only one in the world who understands and I don't have to pretend with him. He doesn't control me or keep me prisoner. He doesn't force me to stay home or do anything against my will. On the contrary, he tries to get me out, but I don't like going without him. He protects me from the world because I want it and need it, but more importantly, he protects me from myself. He's my partner and I trust him."

Anna looked a little embarrassed, humiliated at her own erroneous beliefs. "It's none of my business. I should have kept my mouth shut."

Lisa took Anna's hand. "You cared enough about me to look out for me and that says a lot about you. Thank you."

Anna patted Lisa's hand maternally. "If you ever need someone to talk to, or even someone to have a girl's day out and shop with, you let me know."

Lisa smiled brightly, as did Anna. "I will."

* * *

**October, 2011**

By early October, Lisa was sick of looking at the dying oak tree in its original cheap plastic pot. It had sat in the corner of the living room for a week or two, then moved to the laundry room, eventually to the garage, and finally found its way to the small concrete slab that was supposed to qualify as a back porch. Lisa snatched the tree by the flimsy black container and lugged it to the backyard where she put it on the ground about five feet from the plain wooden fence that lined their property. She left it there on the grass without properly planting it, not caring if it lived or died. Frank and Anna weren't around to see it in the overlooked corner of the yard, and neither were she and Jackson. It was out of sight, out of mind, and out of the way.

When Lisa walked back into the house, she found Jackson sitting at the dining room table, their guns spread out around him. He wore gloves as he handled them. He didn't use guns, opting instead for his trusty knives, but since retrieving the guns from storage in New York, he had cleaned them every Monday and kept them prepped in the event of an emergency. Every room in the house had a gun, every room except Jackson's.

"How do you know how to do that if you don't use guns?" she asked. The question had gnawed at her for weeks.

Lisa had asked on several occasions if Jackson really was a "lousy shot," if he chose not to use guns for a particular reason, and several other similar questions that varied the same theme. In typical Jackson fashion, he responded to the questions honestly and without providing Lisa the answer she wanted but rather the answer he rationalized that she needed to hear. His replies ranged from confirming that he was undeniably a "lousy shot" and that he didn't use guns because he preferred an intimate kill instead, one that guaranteed a personal touch rather than a cowardly, impersonal attack with a flying metal projectile.

"I don't use guns, but I'm not an idiot," he distractedly retorted as he loaded the clip, ejected it, and loaded it again, attesting that it indeed snapped smoothly and without malfunction.

Lisa sighed. She looked to the writing on the wall. It had grown since its humble start. She thought they had written a tremendous amount within the first few days, but that paled in comparison to the seemingly large black blob presently on the wall, the blob that was only decipherable as words when one approached it and read carefully. Printed pictures and multiple colors of ink now added flare to the once bland workspace.

"I'm going upstairs. Want to join me?"

Jackson's lips curled into a sneer. "You want more already? You are insatiable."

"I don't need you to satisfy me," she coldly snapped.

Jackson finished his work on the last gun and stood up. "You need me because doing it alone lacks that sweet taste of satisfaction when you come out on top. But this time, I'm going to be the one that makes you scream." He removed his gloves and slapped them down on the table.

"We'll see about that."

* * *

Lisa kicked high and Jackson ducked as he dropped to the ground and swung a low round kick at her legs. He knocked her to the floor and when he moved to grab her, she spun away and came up behind him, pulling him back by a chokehold on his neck.

The two had taken to training together. The first few weeks in the house were mentally exhausting and both found themselves in need of a distraction, or perhaps a release—same thing, they figured. With their household budget, they invested in purchasing equipment to turn the spare bedroom into a training room that contained everything from a stationary bike to weights and a padded mat on which they could fight without worrying about injury.

Jackson used his strength to pull himself to his feet while taking Lisa along for the fast, jerky ride as she refused to release her chokehold. He couldn't breathe that well, but he was still capable enough to move both of them. He reached behind and gripped her shoulder area. Using his upper body strength more than his hold on her, he flipped her over his shoulder and let her crash into the mat. He dove down on top of her, imprisoning her within the confines of his fists and knees. "I win," he gloated.

Lisa head-butted him and he fell down on top of her completely, their bodies mixing and mingling in an intrusively intimate way. She rolled him off of her and she rotated on top of him as a consequence, but her domination was short lived when he repeated her move on her. He landed on top again and replaced his right fist with his arm on the mat and used his hand to stretch out and clutch at her hair, securely holding her down. "I still win."

She pulled her knee up, slamming it into his groin. He fell off of her, writhing in agony. She leapt up and was about to kick him in the stomach when he dodged her foot at the last second and groaned as he found his footing. His face was bright red and moisture lined his eyes, but he tuned out the pain and focused on his goal. Lisa threw a fake left punch at him, but he blocked it as her right fist sneaked in for an attack. He leaned his head back to avoid it, and he caught her right hand in addition to her left fist. He used her arm to lift her onto his shoulder. She was kicking and flailing, her rear pressed against his cheek, but he kept her off the ground.

"Put me down!"

"I made you scream," he quietly reminded her, earning an irritated growl from her. She redirected her energy into shifting her weight and she took him by surprise when her upper body dove for the ground, an action that yanked him down to the floor and resulted with her landing on top. She was so breathless from the expenditure of her muscles in the move and the hard shock to her lungs from the fall that she didn't have the energy to stay on top. He flipped them both over and returned them to the position they held a minute earlier when he had declared victory.

Their workouts were usually conducted while they were fully clothed, typically in t-shirts and sweats, but they often found themselves in compromising positions. Parts touched, areas brushed, things felt long-forgotten sensations, and the more this happened, the harder they would fight. They were hot and sticky, and their sweat mixed in a very symbolically non-platonic way, but it was a great outlet for them. The stress of their research, the tension from being cooped up in the house all day every day, the issues toward one another and within themselves, all of these things found resolution when they proceeded to beat each other. Of course, there were bruises and occasionally blood, but it was all good-natured and very necessary.

Jackson was slow to lift himself off of Lisa, but when he finally got to his feet, he offered her a helping hand. A few weeks ago, she wouldn't take it, but now she took it just as he would take hers when she was on top as the winner.

"Your high kick is beautiful," he complimented.

"Glad you like it," she beamed proudly. "It took forever to master." It had taken Jackson a hefty amount of time to figure out how to evade it without falling into a clumsy pattern of mistakes. This was the first day where he had managed to avoid her high kick while initiating his own offensive attack.

"My body doesn't move like that, I'm afraid," he admitted as he wiped his face in the equally sweaty inside of his elbow.

"Mine didn't either. I mean, I could kind of do it from skating, but the foot posture is what killed me," she explained. Lisa slowly expanded her leg in the air, holding the position of her high kick. Jackson came closer and watched intently as the long limb expanded outward, maintaining the proper posture without so much as a muscle spasm or twitch. Her legs were muscular and powerful, and his mind strayed to thoughts of how they would feel wrapped around his waist. But that was irrelevant. He was evolved beyond human frailty.

"Lock the knee after the foot is out and flat. I always wanted to point my toes, but they'll break if you do that. You have to stay flat so that your strength goes into it and your foot can push off with force. If you use your toes, you're just tapping at something and that won't cut it." Lisa lowered her leg and shuffled her stance for a moment. "I think your flip is pretty great. I always have to have the majority of someone's body weight on me before I can line them up for it."

"No, it's mind over matter," Jackson insisted. "Use your stature to your advantage." He maneuvered Lisa to stand in front of him, their bodies touching and burning one another with heat and sweat that scorched like lighter fluid on a flame. Jackson wrapped his arms around her neck loosely for the purpose of the demonstration. "Flip me," he ordered.

"I can't. You'd have to lean more of your weight onto me," she said, ignoring the feel of his breath on her ear and the faintest hint of stubble scratching her neck.

"Reallocate your body weight so that you're under mine. You shouldn't have to wait for your opponent to line himself up for your convenience. Make it happen yourself. Move yourself under," he instructed as Lisa pressed her lower body closer to his, grinding into him in a way that suddenly made him realize what a bad idea this was.

"Like this?" Lisa asked, her lower body arched under his, spooning them together as they stood on the mat.

"Yeah," he somehow choked out without sounding too strained. "Now, flip," he commanded. Lisa struggled for a minute before she took a deep breath and put all of her energy into the movement. The next thing Jackson knew, he was looking up at her.

"I win," she grinned.

"In more ways than one," he exhaled, casually folding his hands over his crotch in a subtle yet desperate attempt to conceal something he used to have total control over until Lisa changed that too.

* * *

The Stoneybrook school system was having their annual Fall Fest, and Frank and Anna insisted that Jackson and Lisa go. Frank and Anna, as parents of former students, volunteered to work at one of the food booths while Jackson and Lisa attended the fair as an ordinary couple. The air had taken on a definite chill, so both had on jeans and sweaters. The full moon night was filled with the sounds and smell of carnival games and food that should only be enjoyed once a year. Because there was a rather hefty size crowd, the two stayed near one another. At one point, Lisa reached for Jackson's hand. He took her cold, small hand in his and stole a quick glance her way to verify that she was okay. She looked anxious in the crowd, perhaps a little too jittery, but she was going to tough it out and stay. Necessity had forced her hand into his, but he held it contentedly nonetheless.

* * *

Jackson had resumed reading the classics as he had in prison. Newer novels, the current talks of the water cooler, had been on his agenda when he first recommenced his reading, but those grew tedious to him since they all possessed the intellectual maturity of a pre-teen girl even when the books were written by adults for adults. The classics held more secrets and truths for him. _The Epic of Gilgamesh_ was a short read that seemed to confirm all the nightmarish results that could come of his current situation: death, abandonment, failure, mortality. He even found himself relating to Enkidu discovering humanity through the savage passions of a woman, not that something so provocative or deviant would ever happen within the safe house's walls. The epic poem sent him into another direction, toward that of Oscar Wilde and _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_. When he came to the part about all men killing that which they loved, he agreed to give the current bestsellers a chance again. He had read a little too much truth lately and was now ready for something shallow and meaningless.

* * *

**November, 2011**

November seemed to start with them reading the writing on the wall. It continued with them reading the writing on the wall. It almost concluded with them reading the writing on the wall.

Then Thanksgiving came. It was the first holiday that they would spend together, with the exception of Halloween.

Halloween had been particularly memorable because all of the neighbors from the area that they had never met came by for trick-or-treating with their kids. Jackson and Lisa exchanged a quick "nice to meet you" with each of the parents and the parents each justified not meeting them until now because they were never home due to school, work, ballet, soccer, flag football, glee club, gymnastics, hockey, basketball, baseball, and every other imaginable after school activity. One little blond girl in a Rapunzel costume had stared at Jackson with such fascination that he and Lisa were giving serious consideration to running off in the middle of the night, but the next morning in a "completely coincidental" meeting with the girl's mother on the sidewalk, Lisa found out that the girl merely had a crush on Jackson. When Jackson asked Lisa what the girl's mother had said, she elected to avoid feeding his distinctively male ego and instead told him that the girl's ADHD medication was recently upped.

Lisa woke up on Thanksgiving morning around 4:15. As per her morning ritual (and Jackson's), she walked downstairs in a sleep-deprived trance, sat in the chair backed against the dining room table, and navigated through the content on the wall. There was a pattern to reading the wall. They had initially started at point A (the Red Eye flight) and read through each branch of the thought tree. After the wall became too flooded to start from scratch each time, they opted for finding a center point and concentrating on that one pivotal fact instead. This morning's point for Lisa was her grandmother. Her grandmother had lived a long and healthy life. Jackson had mentioned before that her grandmother had without a doubt died of natural causes and that he found out about her death when Lisa had heard about it. The job was altered because of her death rather than her death being the arranging factor in the job. Lisa believed that Jackson told her the truth as he knew it, but she wasn't sure if it was the actual truth or if it was what the Company had told Jackson.

Jackson joined her downstairs about an hour later. Even though she was wearing flannel pajamas, he found her clutching her knees to her chest in the chair to keep warm in the chilly house that felt more than a little damp from the consistent drizzle of rain that had fallen outside for two days. He was fully dressed in jeans and a white undershirt with a dark gray sweater on top. His short hair was messy from where he had showered and let it dry without combing it first. He knelt down in front of her, obstructing her view of the wall. "Get dressed before you make yourself sick. The wall will still be here."

"But we still need to figure it out and we're at a standstill."

"Today's a holiday. Take a break. Clear your head. Let's enjoy it."

Lisa bit her lower lip to hold back a childlike grin.

* * *

The two spent the day chopping vegetables, mixing ingredients, cursing when they screwed up the recipes that they had found online, trying again and again, and checking the small turkey every five minutes just in case it somehow found a way to burn or dry out. Neither of them knew how to have a Thanksgiving; they just knew they needed one. They deserved the break and in a rare moment that was disturbingly nostalgic and romantic, they decided they should have a day for giving thanks and appreciating the few good things that they had going for them. Lisa thought that Jackson was doing it more for her mental wellbeing since a happy Lisa was a hardworking, puzzle-solving Lisa, but as they got into it, she was surprised to find that he was just as focused on the Thanksgiving job as he was on every other job he undertook. Whoever or whatever he was doing it for, he was doing it well and with what could only be considered enthusiasm by Jackson's typically apathetic standards.

After hours of preparation, their little meal was finally complete. It held fast to traditions with the turkey and gravy, cranberry sauce, corn, green beans, and several types of casseroles. They topped it off with pecan pie at Lisa's request.

"It took hours and hours to make it and now it will be over in no time," Lisa thought aloud. She brought her wine glass to her lips to take a sip of the red liquid.

"Who would have ever figured Thanksgiving dinner would be like sex," Jackson dryly remarked. Lisa choked on her wine and his cold eyes twinkled with mischievous pride. He regretted the inappropriate humor when he remembered that Lisa was occasionally sensitive to comments about sex, but his regret quickly turned to delight when he saw how flustered—in a good way—the comment had made her. "I think we did a great job."

Lisa took a bite of her roll. "I agree. It's delicious. My mother and grandmother always handled Thanksgiving dinners and I hung out with my brothers instead of helping out. I never really watched and learned." She looked at Jackson as if anticipating his own contribution to the "I remember my childhood" memorial she was having. He remained silent as he poked at his green beans before spearing them on his fork in an arrangement that satisfied him. "At least now we know we _can _cook when we want something more complex than pizza, Tex-Mex, or breakfast."

"Speak for yourself," he chided. "I stressed so much over making sure the turkey didn't burn that I think I actually watched it with more attention and obsession than I stalked you." Despite finding them funny in a perverse way, they didn't laugh at jokes like these, though they both made them relatively often. The comments weren't jabs at the other person, but they were instead lighthearted commentaries on the truth of their relationship and their acceptance of it—the good, the bad, the ugly, and the downright creepy. She would joke about beating and stabbing him. He would joke about stalking her. She would joke about him being the only psychopath who wouldn't use a gun. He would joke about her being the only woman aside from Martha Stewart who could make a jailhouse-worthy weapon out of anything. It was sick and twisted, but somehow it worked for them and they were fine with it. Just like their workouts, it wasn't healthy by normal standards, but it was healthy by their standards.

When the meal was over, they retreated into the kitchen to put in even more hours into the clean-up process. They had purchased all the appliances they would need except a dishwasher. Originally they had believed that they wouldn't cook enough for it to be worth the investment, and that decision had come back to haunt them in the form of the seemingly countless dirty pots, pans, bowls, plates, spoons, forks, knives, and glasses. As they did with everything around the house, they stood shoulder to shoulder and faced the obligation head-on.

"You miss your family," Jackson said rather than asked. He wasn't fond of asking questions and he tended to avoid them when possible, but he took particular care in avoiding questions when he wanted to get under Lisa's skin and purge out an honest answer.

She shrugged, passing the clean, wet plate to him. He dried it carefully with the dishtowel.

"I do, but I've missed them longer than four months. It's been years since I've really been part of my family. I think I missed them all along, but I'm only just now realizing that." Her answer came easy and without resistance. She felt she could tell him anything now, not because he had earned her absolute trust in some remarkable way, but because she believed that honesty would be better than keeping the cork in the bottle as it had been for over six years. He never judged her, but he instead studied her as if he were preparing to publish a thesis on her. He liked to see how she ticked, possibly to use it against her later (it wasn't like he hadn't done it before) or possibly just to get to know her in his own peculiar way.

"Maybe you're just now missing them and your guilt makes you think you've missed them longer." Jackson put the plate in the cabinet and Lisa passed another to him. "You can love a person and still not like them or even want to be around them. You might even hate them." He put up the plate and in lieu of another dish from Lisa, he was instead greeted with her intensely curious gaze.

"How would you of all people know about love?"

"I read a lot," he deadpanned. Lisa couldn't help cackling loudly at his pathetic yet oddly accurate answer. He joined in with a few quiet self-depreciating snickers. He had not intended to talk about love and hate with her, as it was a dilemma that he was even now battling himself over, but it had slipped out regardless. Lisa was always the one who looked for meanings and solutions between the lines rather than on the lines. He had said it was possible to love someone that a person hated, but all she heard was that he knew what love was. What he had said to her communicated one thing, but what she had heard was another. It was impossible to face the same direction as the person who was on the other side of the same coin. Likewise it was impossible to be anything other than honest with the person who was the other side of the same coin because it was unavoidable that both sides possessed the same knowledge, openly admitting it or not.

Lisa grew serious and her dishwashing slackened to a slow scrub rather than a brisk but thorough scour. "I love my family, but I just couldn't be with them. I felt like I outgrew them. It was like they were still kids and they saw a different world than I did. When you're living on two separate worlds, there's no way to visit each other without feeling like a foreigner." She stopped washing and looked up to Jackson, her eyes wide and in need of approval. "Does that make sense?"

"Perfectly." She finished the glass and handed it to him. "The only place for an outsider is on the outside. You're just lucky that you happen to know an outsider as messed up as you are."

"'Lucky' is not the word I would use for either of us."

"Well, we were lucky to team up because otherwise, we'd both be dead right now." He used normal words that average people would use, but the translation from Jackson Speak to English was clear: _It was a strategic move that we were brilliant to initiate, and if we hadn't, we'd both be dead right now._ It was classic Jackson logic and Lisa had learned to tune out those philosophies weeks ago. If they were genuinely lucky, they wouldn't have ended up in such a situation at all.

"That's not luck. That's survival instinct and reaction." Lisa rinsed the soap off the last glass and gave it to him to dry. "Everything about us—how we met, how we ended up together—" Jackson's eyebrows shooting up stopped her, causing her to edit her last words. "How we ended up _working_ together," she corrected. He smirked, unapologetically pleased with himself for toying with her so easily. "None of this is luck. It's the desire to live, to score vengeance, to right wrongs done against us."

"It's not all survival and vengeance either," Jackson argued as he put the glass on the shelf and closed the cabinet door. He laid the dishtowel down and leaned back against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. "We have an alliance to work together for our mutual benefit, but that's not what makes us work so well together. Vengeance-seeking survivors is not the nature of who we are."

"And what would you call us if we aren't lucky or survivors?"

"We understand each other and keep each other's secrets."

Lisa rolled her eyes. "The only secret I know about you is that your real first name is in fact Jackson. And you can dance."

"We are so much alike that we don't have to share our secrets to know them or to keep them. Our mutual understanding of one another comes from something so simple that you insist upon shutting it out of your memory."

It was Lisa's turn to cross her arms, but she did so as she leaned her side against the counter in order to face Jackson to her left. "And that would be?"

"Chemistry." Lisa felt like she had been punched in the gut. Whenever she thought about how easy her first few encounters with Jackson had been, how relaxed and how natural, it made her feel a little ill. It seemed wrong to recall those memories with fondness and when she did, she felt ashamed and abnormal.

"What are you suggesting we do about it?" she bravely inquired, her head held high and her poise unwavering.

"I mentioned before that we had chemistry and we did. Maybe we still do." He uncrossed his arms and stepped away from the counter so he could move directly in front of her. "But this," he said, waving his index finger between them. "Whatever this is," he said, his jaw firm as he hovered over her slouching form. "It's wrong."

Lisa was certain that she could see conflict in Jackson's face. She had seen it once before, and that was when he had admitted that Keefe's family would be killed with him. He had appeared sincerely bothered by the notion and it showed then almost exactly like the struggle was showing on his face now. Jackson gave her the impression of almost warming up to the role of playing house with her and at times she could swear that he was enjoying the opportunity to change from Pinocchio to a real boy. Then there were other times when the internal debate between "do the job" and "give life a try" seemed to tear him apart, forcing him to revert back to his default setting of "indifferent and inhuman." He always acted like he wanted to pull her to him, but he pushed her back when she got too close.

Lisa was ambivalent on what her role or opinion was on any of this, but she knew that when she held his hand or when he kissed her cheek, it felt like the only way things could possibly be, like it or not. Their fates were tied together by the culmination of several traumatic experiences six years ago and prior, and the more they fled from or avoided each other, the tighter the knot in their destinies became. Knots will hold things together securely, but they also can be responsible for strangling things as well.

"We've been stuck together in some pretty close, intimate quarters for four months and it's starting to affect us," he explained. "It's messing with our minds. And your heart. You still have panic attacks and you're still tormented by what happened between us, and I realize that you have every right to dwell on our past. In fact, you should dwell on it as a cautionary tale and not consider it an opportunity to redeem one or both of us."

Lisa stood up straight, their heights closer now so that there was less domination on his part. Of all the things he said, she honed in on one particular part. "Why only my heart? Because I'm a woman and I'm weak?"

"In part," was his earnest answer, "but mainly because you actually have a heart."

"And you don't?"

"We both know the answer to that question, Leese." Lisa frequently found herself amazed at how easily Jackson could shift between his robotic form and the almost human hologram that would materialize for brief instances. She could see the human-like hologram and talk with it, laugh with it, and behave normally with it, but then it would vanish just when she thought she would be able to touch it. At this very moment, he stood before her, firm and unblinking, hard and unyielding. Untouchable.

"I think you have a heart in there somewhere. It might be a little dusty and have a few cobwebs on it, but that'll disappear when it beats again. I've seen who you can be, or maybe it's who you were at one point, and I don't exactly mind his company."

"You seem mighty sure of yourself. This is real life. Things don't just resolve themselves in the last act in time for a happily ever after."

Lisa bravely took a step forward, closing the space between them. He wasn't much taller, but she still had to look up to reconnect with his crystal blue eyes. "You've taken care of me. Without having a reason to do so, you made it a point to tell me you'd never hurt me." She said "hurt," but the reference was clear: he had assured her that he would never assault her or abuse her femininity with aggression against her will. Jackson had no idea that his admission, as simple as he felt it was, had made such an impact on her view of him. "A man wouldn't admit to something like that without caring about my feelings." Jackson was astonished. First, Lisa was calling him a man and not a monster. Second, she confirmed that she was truly convinced he would never violate her on the most inhuman level a man could reach. And third, Lisa suggested that he cared about her feelings, and she wasn't repulsed by it. All of this could only mean one thing.

"You've given me this inspirational speech already about how I'm secretly better than I give myself credit for and you know what—this emotional reaction is _exactly_ what I'm talking about," he reprimanded, raising his voice. Lisa felt a surge of hostility sear through her veins in response to his elevation of their conversation from discussion to fight. "And don't think I don't know what's going through that devious little head of yours," he said, obnoxiously poking her forehead once, his hand moving away faster than she could slap at him. "You think you can save me. You'll be the one who makes me feel again and brings me back into a world of rainbows and unicorns. Don't bother. You should direct all of your attention to saving yourself from the dozens of issues even I can see that you have. You can't even look into a mirror!" Lisa was stunned. "Yeah, I noticed. I know more about you than you know about yourself. And trying to save me is a lost cause and it will only weigh you down even more." Jackson wanted to turn his back on her and storm away, but he couldn't. She looked so insusceptible to his cruelty that it failed to even faze her.

Lisa was flustered at the conundrum in which they were trapped. Perhaps they weren't trapped. Maybe it was something as complex yet simple as a Rubik's Cube. It could take years to figure out their relationship by making one experimental twist and turn after another, or it could take seconds to make it all fit once they figured out the trick to solve their problem.

"Give me some credit, Jackson," she pleaded. "Not every reaction is based on emotions. This thing that exists is not stress or close quarters. It's something we saw six years ago. You said it yourself: we have chemistry." They were both taken aback by this line because they had once again reversed roles in their argument. They each seemed to take a turn arguing in favor of and against whatever their "relationship" was or should be. In fact, neither of them was actually sure of what they wanted to argue in favor of or against, or why they should even pick that side.

Jackson snorted and shook his head. "So, let me see if I have this right. This thing between us is what? Destiny? Fate? _Love_?" he sneered.

"No," she answered. "It's nothing so textbook. And it's more than chemistry. Chemistry is a bunch of equations and reactions. We're not math or science."

"Then what is it, Dr. Phil? What are we?"

"It's not pretty. It's twisted and slightly sick and sinister. It's cold and detached. I don't even want to be part of it. But whatever it is, it understands. It connects. It kept me—and I'm betting you—company for six years. It's the only thing that is keeping us both alive and not alone right now. It's all we have because we keep pushing away and hiding from everything else." Lisa put her hand on his chest and he almost jumped out of his skin at the unexpected touch. He could feel her warmth burning through his sweater and onto his skin. She looked up at him and from under her long lashes she gave her actual answer. "It's inevitability. Like it or not."

Jackson put his hand over hers, squeezing it gently as he removed it from his chest. "You don't even know me. The only thing that is inevitable about you and me is disaster. We should focus on the job." With that, he stormed out of the kitchen and up the stairs, his loud footfall echoing throughout the empty house.

Lisa slowly wandered into the dining room and sat in the chair backed against the table. There would be no easy answers to either mystery for quite some time. She stared at the writing on the wall until it seemed to stare back at her.

The writing on the wall was clear: it was inevitable that this would not end well.

* * *

The taskforce had disbanded and life had gone on for everyone except him. He was given this assignment six years ago and he would not return the file to the cabinet until it had a stamp across the front of it that said "Solved" or "Closed." The hotline had provided dozens of legitimate leads that were real, but they took him nowhere except where the lunatic middleman had intentionally led him. Even worse was that for every one of those real leads, there were hundreds of cranks who knew nothing about any of this.

After all of these months, the hotline was now essentially dead. It received one call about once a month or so if they were lucky. He was disheartened and losing faith in his abilities until he checked his e-mail one day. There was a message from an out-of-state woman visiting relatives in Stoneybrook, Connecticut who claimed she saw them at a school fair. Attached was a picture. He downloaded the file and a .jpg came up. A group of teens smiled enthusiastically for the camera, but over the shoulder of the boy to the far right was a blur that looked oddly familiar. He clicked on their last photos on record and dragged them into position side by side with the fair picture.

It was indeed Jackson Rippner and Lisa Reisert.

He picked up the phone and pressed a few buttons on the desktop keypad. "This is King. I need all of those boxes on the Rippner case brought to my office immediately. I think I finally have a real lead."

* * *

**TBC…**


	9. Ch 8: Driven

**Chapter 8: Driven**

* * *

**December, 2011**

December got off to a slow and quiet start. Jackson and Lisa weren't avoiding one another, but they didn't go out of their way to be nice. Things were a little rigid in the house, and the chill of winter was cuddly and warm compared to the frostiness of their association. Most days had them sitting in a deafeningly silent dining room, staring at the wall as if a sudden epiphany would reveal itself. Their progress had come to a glorified standstill. There was nothing else that could possibly be recorded on the wall, as it was now completely full and had spilled over onto the two smaller side walls and the quarter of a wall bordering the kitchen. Whatever Lisa knew, whatever the key was to figuring out everything, it was there already. They just needed to decipher it and its ramifications.

Lisa could feel his dead eyes burrowing into her skull and attempting to infiltrate her thoughts. She jerked her head around to return his obtrusive gaze. "What?" she barked unnecessarily. She was frustrated at him and the wall with equal abhorrence. Since the wall was incapable of fighting back, she would take it out on Jackson.

He was unfazed by her irritability. "Have you looked up your family online?"

"What?"

"I'm sure they're on Facebook or Twitter or something. Myspace," he cheekily speculated as he mentally pictured Joe Reisert finger-pecking an old keyboard. "Have you considered checking up on them?"

"_Stalking _them?" she asked with more than a hint of suggestive irony.

Jackson pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. "Tomayto, tomahto," he enunciated. "You can't talk to them, but you can certainly be part of their lives. It might help you." _It might help you to be of use to me_ was how she translated his language into hers.

"By easing my guilt," she completed for him. "Not for helping me reconnect with my lost loved ones."

"Perhaps. But maybe there's a third reason for my interest in your family life."

Lisa eyed him distrustfully. "And that is?"

Jackson slid off of the dining room table where he had sat perched on the edge for two hours. He noisily dragged the legs of a wooden chair across the hard floor several feet before straddling the backward-turned chair directly in front of her, obscuring her view of the wall. He propped his chin on his arms that were folded atop the back of the chair. "Daddy took almost a month to report you missing. Mommy hasn't said a word. Bro 1 and Bro 2 aren't stirring the pot on this week's episode of _48 Hours Mystery_. I want to know why. You're the only Reisert who has ever made a bit of sense to me, so I need some help understanding the rest of your family."

"I told you, it's because of the note. They know how hard things have been for me and they're respecting my privacy—"

"Bullshit. That's bullshit and you know it."

"Is it so hard to believe that—"

"Yeah, yeah it is. Think about it. You are Lisa, the Great One, the daughter who walks on water in Daddy's eyes, yet none of your people are the least bit concerned about your wellbeing after being off the radar for five months."

"You're suggesting that my family is Company…?"

"No," he firmly insisted, his hand held out in front of him to prevent her from going further with that idea. "But I am saying that something doesn't add up here," he rationalized calmly.

Lisa leaned forward, planted her elbows onto her knees, and buried her forehead in her left palm. Her position brought her close enough to Jackson that he could smell her new green apple shampoo. She sat up straight, a look of determination dominating her features. "Okay, let's take it from there. What do you want to know?"

"What did Dad do for a living?" Jackson probed without hesitation.

"Corporate insurance. He negotiated terms of coverage for physical assets of companies as well as for their employees en masse."

"Mom?"

"Odd jobs over the years, but most recently as an industrial event planner. She organized Christmas parties, retirement parties, retreats, stuff like that for big companies."

"Why did they divorce?"

Lisa looked uncomfortable as her white pallor drained into an unearthly gray for a second. "A year before I was attacked…there was some tension. Dad had been obsessed with his job all his life and as a last ditch effort, she begged him to retire. He wasn't ready. He couldn't let go of his job because he felt like it defined him or something. Mom loved him, but she gave up and had to move on. She realized that she was tired of always being second to something else—second to a job, of all things." Lisa pondered her words for a moment before trying again. "It was more like she wasn't able to handle everything all at once and all alone. Something had to go and it wasn't going to be her life or me, so it was Dad. They loved each other, but they hadn't had time to be in love or even be together for years. When you live with a stranger that you see less than a college dorm mate, something is wrong and it's time to make a change."

"Mom's boyfriend?"

"Victor?" Lisa asked, surprised at his relevance in any of this. "He's an accountant for a law firm."

"Duke?"

"Gran's younger man," Lisa drawled coyly. "Middle-age is the new cradle to be robbed." She and Jackson shared a laugh at that one as they remembered some of Lisa's more adventurous tales of her lively grandmother. "He was retired military, a scary butch Marine who turned into a teddy bear with her."

Jackson exhaled disappointedly and scratched the back of his neck. "Do you recall any incident in your entire life that seemed off somehow—something that just didn't quite make sense to you?"

Lisa held her breath as she scanned her memory for oddities at any age, but trying to remember something like that was the proverbial needle in a haystack. "Not until I met you."

Jackson's lips parted to say something, but his cell rang and prevented further comment on the matter. He hurried to retrieve the phone off the kitchen counter. Lisa suspected he was going to bring up Josh and she was grateful for the interruption because he was someone that she didn't want to talk about anymore. He was nice and great and wonderful, and he was a good friend. Josh seemed to be more important to Jackson than he was to her. She picked up a blue marker and added the information she had just given Jackson to the wall. It was a tough fit, but she made it work.

"That was Frank. We need to go."

"Go where?"

* * *

Jackson drove them down a road that was big enough for two cars, but lacked lane stripes down the middle. There were small, young trees on either side that had been sensibly selected and planted with ties holding them down until they could take root properly. Their Explorer finally arrived at the end of the road and a giant flat, wall-free race track awaited them. The area was desolate and only a sparse row of large pine trees surrounded it. Lisa could hear the sound of the frigid winter wind gusting against her window even over the roar of the SUV's heater.

"Merry Christmas," Jackson said, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

"A giant parking lot. Thanks, Jackson. I've always wanted one," she responded in a perfectly droll monotone. "I have such fond memories from parking lots."

Jackson rolled his eyes. "It's a track, Leese," he explained, as if that made it all make sense.

"I've always wanted one of those, too." The irritated grimace on his face made her giggle. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to need a little more information before I get excited about my gift."

"I was actually referring to the black Mustang." Lisa searched over the expanse of raceway that she could see through the front windshield and on the total opposite side of the track was a small dark dot (next to a silver dot) that must have been the vehicle in question.

"We already have a car."

"We do, but you don't." Jackson moved his left hand to lazily dangle his wrist over the top of the wheel. He propped his right arm on the console that rested between their seats. "If something happens," he began, leaning in a little to make direct eye contact with her, "you need a car you can handle."

"I've handled a Jeep before. And a Lamborghini."

"Correction: you drove a Jeep into a wall and killed one of my favorite pets," he amended, reminding her of how she took out one of his preferred henchmen. "If you're in another situation like you were in Italy, you need something that won't easily flip and can get you out of trouble. You also need something that is inconspicuous and a Mustang is as ordinary as they come."

"Then what's so special about it?"

"Frank and I have been modifying it for months. It's fast and it's sturdy. It could save your life one day."

"Wait—you seriously bought Frank's Mustang?" she asked, just now realizing the bigger picture. "I thought you two were just doing…_guy stuff_. Hanging out. Tinkering with mechanical doohickeys. Talking about football and types of beer."

Jackson snickered at her sitcom-inspired perception of masculinity. "We did do _guy stuff_, but it was on a car that I happened to buy for you."

"With your own money," she gasped, suddenly feeling guilty. Jackson had bought a car for her out of his own personal allowance and he then dedicated months to making the car top-notch for her safety and protection.

"It's my money," he reiterated. "I bought what I wanted with it."

"I don't know what to say," was the cliché that escaped her lips, but it was the truth. She was truly stunned into speechlessness by Jackson's act of kindness. For the longest time, it appeared that he had only wanted to maintain her health and sanity just for his own purposes, but using his own time, effort, and finances to prepare a present for her benefit was truly something she would have never deemed him capable of doing.

"You never have to say anything," Jackson whispered, his eyes cast downward and concealed under dark lashes. He felt a small chill on his neck when he saw Lisa's timid, pale hand cautiously extend to take his right hand and squeeze it affectionately. Jackson redirected his gaze to their joined hands. He spread his fingers and laced his through hers so that the two of them jointly formed a silent prayer for all the things that continued to go unspoken and unacknowledged.

A moment, thick and substantial, filled the world around them. Things seemed so easy and ordinary during times like these, times when their chemistry, their mutual understanding, their alikeness made everything seem real and possible. Then, as always, the moment passed.

"Frank and Anna are waiting," Jackson mumbled, slipping his hand free from hers so he could drive them across the track.

"What are they doing here?" It wasn't that Lisa was ungrateful to see her new friends, but she couldn't imagine what they had to do with any of this.

"This is the track the local law enforcement officers use for training purposes. Frank still has access, so we're going to take a free ride."

"There's a lot of irony going around lately," Lisa commented with barely contained amusement.

The irony of a fugitive and his hostage using police facilities with their retired police friend aiding them was not lost to Jackson. "Irony is highly contagious. I wonder if there's a pill for that."

"Next question," Lisa transitioned, prepping Jackson for yet another inquiry. "What are _we _doing here? You couldn't give me the car at the house?" They never called it "home." It was always "the house."

"Of course, but then you wouldn't learn how to drive."

"I know how to drive," Lisa replied indignantly.

"I'm not talking about driving a Camry down the freeway. The only time you've ever actually _driven_ a car was Italy and I was talking you through it. I want to know that you can handle yourself if you ever have to drive on your own."

"Careful, Jackson. You're losing that male-driven, fact-based logic you're so fond of."

Jackson stopped the SUV and shut off the ignition. Lisa awaited his retort, but it never came. Jackson's sarcasm and threats were comforting. His logic and condescension were predictable. His silence, however, was unnerving.

When they got out of the car, Anna and Frank offered their greetings and asked Lisa how she liked her present. "Jack put so much into this for you," Frank told Lisa as he wrapped his arm around his wife. Anna snuggled into his slightly warmer embrace, using his larger body to help shield the wind off of her.

Lisa didn't know what to say, so she looked to Jackson. His eyes were always so calculating and reserved, so inhuman, yet there he stood looking at her almost like a little boy humbly fishing for praise regarding his latest refrigerator-posted artistic masterpiece. It was charming and endearing, and definitely disarming.

"I think it's sweet that he wants to share this with you," Anna contributed. Her words were cryptic to Lisa, but she, Frank, and Jackson all seemed to know what she meant. Jackson's attention lingered downward again. This time he was acutely interested in his black sneakers. Lisa stared at him, but he continued playing oblivious. Lisa inched in close enough to him that she could stand beside him, her body fully touching his from shoulder to foot. She bent over so she could peer up at him from under his attempt at hiding.

"I don't think I was supposed to say that," Anna guiltily remarked as she tried not to notice the awkward interaction between the couple.

"I don't think I was supposed to tell you," Frank uttered to her as he, too, attempted to give Jackson and Lisa some semblance of privacy.

"I shouldn't have told _anyone_," Jackson declared with a forced smile that was anything but happy as he faced everyone. He ignored their audience and spoke only to Lisa. "My father taught me to drive using a Mustang and a track not unlike this one."

Lisa wasn't sure what the big deal was or why everyone was acting so sheepishly. Jackson came up with stories all the time to flesh out his current alias. That was when Lisa realized that just like going by the name "Jack," the father revelation was no story. His current identity was one built on truth, how much truth, she didn't know, but truth regardless. To Frank and Anna, it was a vague reference to what was most likely a painful past. To Lisa, it was a truth to a past that she knew ended in bloodshed.

The poignancy in his eyes, the manifestation that was distinctively mortal for the moment, was not a guise of one seeking approval. It was an expression of loss and remorse, of one seeking something that was not allowed: family.

* * *

As Frank and Jackson raced one another, Frank's Corvette against the Mustang, Lisa and Anna shuffled and swayed in place in an attempt to stay warm. Both had their arms crossed and Lisa was pretty sure her frozen nose was going to slide off of her face like an ice cube on a slanted surface. They spectated with moderate interest as the men tested the speeds of the vehicles and the capabilities of the brakes. Frank was conservative in how he drove. He raced like a cop who was determined to catch his man, but he was not about to allow himself to become a public safety threat. Jackson, however, raced like he had nothing to lose. When he tested the brakes, he waited until the last possible second, coming close to skidding off the track and onto the grass on more than one occasion. The cars accelerated back to the women and Lisa was nervous when she saw them both going at full speed. As expected, Frank braked first, pulled the car into a spin that brought the vehicle toward them backward. It came to a halt a mere second before Jackson, who had done the same maneuver, brought his to a stop. Jackson got out of the car and walked around to the passenger's door. He opened it and waited expectantly.

Lisa innocently glanced around, wondering who or what Jackson was waiting for, before he finally addressed her. "You. Let's go," he ordered. Lisa saw Frank and Anna standing at the hood of the Corvette, both smiling and completely naïve to the true purpose for Jackson's fun race day. Lisa sighed and felt herself grow colder because of it. She sat down in the seat as instructed and Jackson slammed the door. He was inside and putting on his safety belt just as she was connecting hers. "You've been paying attention," he said rather than asked.

"Yeah."

"You've seen how it looks on the outside. Now, watch me do it," he instructed. He floored the pedal and Lisa had to grab onto the door to brace herself against the forces of gravity and inertia working against her. It seemed like they had only started moving an instant before, but they were already nearing the end of the straight-line segment of the track. She followed Jackson's hands and feet as they moved in a type of harmony that could only come from memorization and years of practice. He braked and pulled the emergency brake as he simultaneously inched the wheel. They turned a half-circle and it amazed her considering how little pressure he had applied in directing the wheel to the left. He undid the process and floored the gas, pushing them forward toward the way they had just come. When they were halfway through the track, Jackson performed the same maneuver that Lisa had done in Italy, except he did it with imaginary obstacles in his way and with far more precision than she could have ever demonstrated. When he reached the side of the track, he slammed on brakes and coasted the car sideways into an imaginary parallel parking spot.

Lisa breathed for what she thought may have been the first time since the car was shifted into "drive." She slowly looked to Jackson, her fingers still white-knuckled and wrapped around the door handle. Her bangs, now too long to be referred to as such, had fallen out of her sloppy bun and into her face. He was already staring her down, waiting for a response. An arrogant smirk held his lips tightly together. "I don't think I can do that," she sluggishly stated.

"That's okay," he returned supportively. "Because we're not leaving here until you get it right," he concluded not-so-supportively.

* * *

Lisa was having trouble standing up when she limped into the house that evening around 8 p.m. Jackson was typical Jackson as he went through his nightly ritual of locking the door and securing the already fortified downstairs windows and doors. She gradually hobbled her way to the stairs. She had done nothing more difficult than merely sit behind the wheel of a car all day as she practiced maneuvers and weaved around orange cones, and she could have never guessed that such driving would be so painful.

"It'll pass in a few days," Jackson assured her, apparently reading her mind. "I was sore for about a week when I learned."

Lisa clutched the railing and lifted her left leg to conquer the first step, but she moaned and instead settled for standing on the ground level until she could brace herself for the trip up to the second floor. "Your father taught you to drive with a Mustang," she dared to bring up again. Jackson had evaded it the first time and she had let him off the hook with his anonymity intact, but not this time.

He tossed his jacket onto the seldom used sofa by the door. "Not my real father, of course."

Jackson stood next to her at the stairs with the intention of seeing her take every aching stride upward and mocking her mercilessly as she did so. Any kind of basic driving could cause pain and discomfort if someone held his or her muscles in a tighter or more alert posture. Lisa had done that and then some because of the type of driving she had learned. When she relaxed, she could feel the discomfort of using her muscles in a way she never had on any prior occasion. The tension and stress were even making their presence known in the form of an incoming headache.

"Of course," Lisa sarcastically agreed. She became somber and serious, and tried again. "But what I saw in your eyes was real. I saw emotion," she accused.

Jackson shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I did kill my father," he reminded her.

"And is that why this bothers you? You killed the man who taught you—"

"My biological father didn't teach me a damn thing," he screamed so unexpectedly that Lisa actually flinched. "Well, maybe one thing," he added with abrupt calmness that completely contradicted his outburst. He seemed to remember that Lisa was standing before him with uncertainty haunting her washed-out complexion like a ghost. "I'm sorry," he uncharacteristically offered in apparent concern for alarming her. "You don't know anything about this—"

"Because you won't tell me!" she yelled back, not bothering to savor the fact that she made Jackson flinch just as she had flinched moments earlier.

"My mentor at the Company was the closest thing I've ever had to a father," he admitted, volunteering the information before Lisa could nag him for it. "Samuel watched out for me for almost all my life. He could be an ass, but he was loyal. I don't think I ever trusted or appreciated him when he was alive…" Jackson trailed off and a distant light that had sadly flickered in his eye seemed to darken. "…as much as I do now," he finished, observing Lisa with a burdened heart.

"_Samuel_?" Jackson mutely nodded. "Samuel was your friend?"

"I think we've established that already."

"The same Samuel who masqueraded as a Federal agent so he could play Twenty Questions with me and then popped up every now and then to intimidate me. _That Samuel_?"

"Most likely."

Lisa cackled manically and put her hands on her hips. She turned from Jackson and the soreness throbbing throughout her body was long forgotten. Samuel. His mentor was "Agent Samuel West." She was going to let it go. That was the plan—to march up the stairs and forget what she had just learned.

Nope. That was _not_ going to happen. She lurched back around to face him. "You had Samuel stalk me for six years. _He _was the one who did your dirty work for you when you couldn't do it yourself!" she ranted, her finger waving accusingly in his face.

"He kept an eye on you for six years," Jackson coolly justified. "He didn't want to because he respected your experience with me and your privacy, but I asked him to do it for me regardless. And he did it. For me. He knew how I felt—" Jackson's words skidded to a halt not unlike the Mustang when he slammed on the brakes. "He understood my obsessive nature better than anyone and he knew that an incomplete job would destroy my mind when I was sentenced to that cage for thirty years." Lisa's mouth gaped open in shock, her head automatically shaking in disgust. "Consider it a favor for both of our sakes."

"A favor?" she shrieked. "A favor! You had the man you claim was like a father to you do your stalking like some sick pervert—"

"Who's the pervert: me or him?" Jackson interrupted, knowing that his nitpicking of her grammar would make her even more irate.

"_Both of you_!" she howled, tears of anger streaming down her reddening face. "You act like he was family to you and you used him and manipulated him just like everyone you supposedly care about! You people have a really fucked up view of friendship and love."

"I care about no one," was all Jackson could say as Lisa forced herself up the stairs. When she reached the landing between the two levels, Jackson seized her from behind and roughly threw her into the wall. Déjà vu drowned out her vision and all she could see was the man from six years ago pushing her around as if she were a rag doll. He pinned both of her wrists to the wall above her head when she attempted to hit him and he pushed his knee between her legs to keep her off balance and unable to kick him.

"Samuel saved your life. He didn't want to watch you. He only did the bare minimum and I think most of the time, he left a lot of the best parts out of his report."

"Josh."

"Josh," he bitterly concurred as he spit the name out like spoiled fish. "Among other matters. But he knew you were in danger. Somehow, I don't know how, he figured it out. He figured out what we can't seem to put together for ourselves after months of scribbling on that damn wall. He told me you were in danger and that I needed to get to you. He warned me, Leese. He set off an explosion to break me out. He died telling me that your life was in jeopardy. That's not a pervert. That's not a monster. That's my father and he told me someone I favored was at risk." Lisa reacted to his testimony and tears now of panic, fear, and misery slipped out of her eyes without a sound. "Don't look so surprised. He figured out how _necessary_ you were for me long before either of us knew. So don't you dare take the high road. He wasn't some sick son of a bitch. He was your hero. I just do the dirty work."

Jackson released his hold on her in the blink of an eye and marched up to his room.

* * *

Lisa stared at the Google main page for what seemed like hours. She wasn't thinking. Her mind was pleasantly numb and empty of all conscious thought. Jackson had changed her perspective of him twice in one day and now nothing made sense to her. Her stalker's henchman/sidekick/mentor/father figure saved her life. Her stalker, the assailant who had tried to kill her, was now her roommate and was giving her gifts that would save her life.

_Freed from desire, then you can see the hidden mystery._

Lisa had avoided Chinese food since getting that fortune and Jackson had respected her wishes. He would smuggle in some dumplings when he could, but he made sure it was never a full meal with an accompanying cookie. Her fortunes always came true and for the longest time, she believed that this fortune was about her growing interest, for lack of a better word, in Jackson as a person, a man. Now, however, the term "desire" had taken on a broader definition, one that might help her see more clearly the mystery on the wall as well as the mystery in her heart.

Lisa typed her mother's name in the search box and pulled up her Facebook page. Her desire was to reconnect with her family, the family she had been separated from for over six years, or since she was raped several years before that, to be honest. Jackson had proven something without even realizing it: when one is not a part of this world and cannot love like a normal person, the only form of love available is from afar. Stalking was considered malicious and self-serving. Loving from afar—watching, protecting, serving—was the only option for those who were incapable of sharing emotions freely.

She spent the rest of the night reading and participating in her family from a distance. Perhaps after that, she would be free to see the hidden mystery.

* * *

Jackson grunted as he deposited the heavily weighted bar back onto the sturdy hooks of the bench above his head. He got up and took a few steps before he plunged down face first and caught himself with his hands, initiating a series of intense push-ups.

He had revealed too much. He had walked too fine a line. He had dared to connect with people in a way that he thought he could manage, but the truth of the matter was that it was too much for any of them to handle. After everything that had happened in the course of the day, the only image that he retained from it was the look of revulsion on Lisa's face as they addressed the Samuel matter. The anger, the resentment, the pity, the terror, the repulsion—they all repeatedly flashed through his thoughts.

Jackson shoved himself up to his feet. He was breathing heavily, but he couldn't stop. He savored the searing pain of oxygen deprivation. He relished the burn in his muscles. He craved the moment when he would start to feel weak and on the border of collapsing into unconsciousness as stars flashed in his vision, but he wasn't quite there yet. He glanced at his watch, his sight requiring a few extra seconds to adjust to the dim light of the workout room. It was only a little shy of 11 p.m. Jackson retrieved his hoody from his bedroom and left the house for another run to or from something. He still didn't know which.

* * *

Jackson returned to the house about 1 a.m. He locked the door and double checked it as always. When he turned to go upstairs, he saw a dark blob sitting on the bottom stair.

"Where the hell were you?"

Jackson struggled to catch his breath. She wasn't worth an answer. He didn't owe her anything. He walked to the stairs and was about to take the step where she sat when she grabbed his leg and pulled it out from under him. He plummeted to the floor and instantly leapt to his feet to confront her. "You don't want to do this," he warned.

"I don't want to fight you. I just want to know where the hell you were. Anything could have happened to you, to me, to both of us. We're never apart. Remember that rule?" Lisa's hair was down and her green flannel pajama pants and fitted pink nerd-style Hello Kitty t-shirt were far from intimidating.

"I had to get out," he indirectly excused himself.

"This isn't the first time this has happened, is it?" she asked quietly. She stood and took a step toward him. He shuffled and took a step back. He pushed his hair out of his face, but it just fell forward again. She remembered catching him jogging in the middle of the night during one of their first nights in the house, but that had been a seemingly isolated event. Now Lisa was able to see a pattern based off of secrets and a self-centered need for solitude. "_Is it?_"

"No."

"It seems we have something else in common." At Jackson's baffled expression, she continued. "We both act out on our internal conflicts. We know what mine are, but what's yours?"

"The only conflict I have was sitting on the stairs when I walked in. We're only pretend married, Leese. You don't get to play the bitchy nag with me." When he moved to go up the stairs, Lisa grabbed him by the arm. He reacted and attempted to elbow her, but she ducked it and kicked the backs of his knees, dropping him flat to the floor. He permitted himself the luxury of surrendering as he willingly stayed on his back, still striving to steady his breathing from his run. Lisa sat on the floor beside him, but she hovered over his torso with her arms draped upon him almost protectively as if to comfort him while subtly holding him down.

"You're running from me," she guessed.

"Wouldn't you feel more comfortable if you asked it instead?"

She laughed dryly. "Nah, because you are running from me. I can see that."

Jackson closed his eyes and covered them with his limp, heavy arm. "I'm not running from you," he replied in his most bored voice. There were so many variations on the running theme. He was running from Lisa; to Lisa; from commitment; to commitment; from humanity; to humanity. The list never ended. "We understand each other in so many ways. We're so much alike. But there are some things that I don't want you to understand. I don't want you to know what I really am. I'd rather be the atrocity your mind created based on your limited data."

Lisa leaned forward, her head resting on her arms that lingered protectively over his heart. "I can handle it, whatever it is," she promised.

"I couldn't do that to you. You may not believe this, but you're still innocent and pure. You're untouchable." She was Beatrice and he was Dante, and this was definitely part of _The Inferno_.

She was insulted by his praise of her. The woman he saw clearly existed only in his mind. "I've killed people," she croaked, and he could hear the unshed tears in her voice. He left his arm over his eyes, not wanting to see her cry again. "I was…" She sniffed, the action making her red and puffy face look even worse. "I've done horrific things…the things I've done, said, thought…"

"And yet you're still…" Jackson didn't know what to say. He sat up, forcing Lisa to sit up straight with him. He cupped her cheek, the contact making her tears finally rain from her eyes. He chased down a few of them, tackling and destroying them with the power of his touch. "I'm going to burn in hell and that's okay. I don't deserve you, but I'm too selfish to ignore you."

There was no clear objective or agenda in their words, and neither had a clue as to what they expected from the other. They wanted, yet refused, ignored, battled, and avoided everything that ate away at them from the inside out. They could look but not touch, and even the look was too far beyond the guidelines that they had established for themselves long ago and reestablished for themselves after they started playing house.

Their game had come to a stalemate and the only solution that they had was to rewrite the rules, to bend the laws of their lives to accommodate their own selfish needs and desires, but those rules were the only structure that they could rely upon. They were the guidelines that kept them company in the solitude of their own minds and beds. Violating the rules would not be easy and rewriting them would be virtually impossible.

Jackson's confession was as near to step one as they would permit themselves at this point, but they had a long way to go. They couldn't say any of the things they knew or wanted to say. Shame was still in the lead for the most commonly felt emotion in the house.

Lisa traced his jaw with guileless curiosity and she felt the muscles become tense under her feather light caress. She was being drawn to him as helplessly as a moon trapped by the orbit of a dominate planet. Her heartbeat slowed but pounded, and her eyelids became heavy. She saw him close his eyes, his head moving forward in magnetic response to her. Their lips brushed against one another accidentally as Jackson avoided her, his head tightly turned away to completely shut her out. Her chest heaved as she attempted to catch her long-forgotten breath.

"This is wrong," he reminded them both as he pulled back from her, but failed to relinquish his physical contact with her. He sounded like an automated recording. "We have a job to do." He tangled his fingers in her hair, absently playing with the messy auburn curls that he so seldom saw.

"Maybe this is the job. Maybe Samuel was just giving you what he knew you wanted."

"Maybe Samuel was giving you your life back and putting mine in line."

"Maybe this is inevitable."

"Maybe you'll wake up in bed next to me and realize that you never knew what shame really was until you gave yourself to me."

"Maybe if we're freed from desire, then we can see the hidden mystery."

"Maybe."

* * *

They tried to avoid it, but unfortunately there was no way around it. The Christmas season had officially arrived and of course Frank and Anna had their annual Christmas party. All of their family and friends were in attendance, including some of Frank's police buddies. Sadly, "Jack and Elise" had to go out of town on the evening of the Christmas party. When Frank and Anna left their house to do some last minute preparations for the gathering, Jackson and Lisa put both vehicles in the garage and closed the door rather than leaving their customary travel vehicle, the Explorer, parked in the driveway as usual. If they were going to leave town, it would be in the SUV and it was the one they needed to hide inside next to the Mustang's regular spot. It was a tight fit in the carport that was made for one vehicle with some side storage space, but they made it work. They put extra cloth over the windows to add an additional level of privacy that their already thick curtains couldn't provide alone. They made sure to keep all the lights down to the lowest settings and avoided turning on lamps that didn't have brightness options.

They didn't have a tree. Neither one of them seemed particularly keen on having one for their own respective reasons that weren't worth sharing. There were no blinking lights or plastic decorations. There were no gaudy, obnoxious inflatables in the front yard depicting obese home invaders in red or religious icons who couldn't check into a hotel or kleptomaniacal men made of precipitation that had tobacco addictions. Jackson and Lisa made the Grinch seem as happy-go-lucky as Barney.

Just like they did at Thanksgiving, the two of them made their own meal. Things seemed to be a little less edgy after their near whatever-that-was-the-other-night-that-neither-wanted-to-talk-about encounter. Instead of eating at the table like civilized people, they filled their plates full and piled into the rarely used living room. They spent the holiest day of the year viewing_ True Blood_, a gift from Frank and Anna. It wasn't the easiest thing to watch given the tension in their own house, but they had nothing better to do and Jackson's repeated threats during his running commentary to turn the predictable "plot" into a drinking game kept Lisa in stitches.

Sex had only been referenced fleetingly three or four times in six months. Lisa avoided it because Jackson avoided it. She was not an overtly sexual person by nature and had been in very few sexual relationships in her life. Her assault had ended all possibilities for a future relationship because she didn't trust a potential partner or herself enough to let go.

For Jackson, sex was a weakness or a strength that could make or break a man. When it came to things that fell under the title of "matters of the heart," he avoided sex because it was nothing more than a sentimental trap that would destroy all involved. He had learned years ago how to shut down his mind and body, how to trade his lust for flesh in for passion for work. His mind was in command, or it was until Lisa decided to…_exist_. He was compelled toward her, attracted to her in a distinctively primal way that he tried to subdue. Although his experiences with her, his bruises and scars alike, proved to the contrary, he still viewed her as a delicate creature to be admired. Her sexually violent past made him even more careful with her because he needed her for the job. A lesser reason, a reason he would never openly admit, was that he didn't want to see her hurt. Even on the plane, he had felt ill upon discovery of her assault. He had changed his tactics immediately for both their sakes.

By the time they reached season 2 of their DVD gift set, they had already abandoned their plates in the kitchen sink and left all of the mess for clean-up at another time. He had been stretched out on the couch for a while when Lisa joined him, complaining that she, too, wished to lie down. He wanted to tell her to go away, but his body shifted position to let her recline beside him. He wanted to tell her to leave more room between them, but his body curled around hers, spooning her as he let her use his arm as a pillow. He wanted to tell her he needed to get up and sit somewhere else, but he buried his face in her neck and inhaled deeply.

She wanted to tell him that she wasn't sure if she was comfortable with their close contact, but she felt a wave of contentment satisfy her as his cool hand slipped under her shirt and absently traced pleasantly ticklish patterns on the smooth skin of her lower abdomen.

* * *

On Christmas night, Jackson retreated to his bedroom and took a cold shower. He needed to focus, to get his head back in charge of his other head, and to stop allowing frivolous fantasies of impossibilities to dictate his actions.

He left the bathroom dripping wet, his towel wrapped around his waist. He was about to plunder through his dresser drawers in search of clothing when he spotted a hand-size wrapped package on top of the dresser. His room was very Spartan, and there were few pieces of furniture and even fewer colors. The bright, multicolored wrapping and silver and gold thread bow shined out like a beacon. He stared at the box as if waiting for it to sprout legs and do a jig. He could never remember a time in his life when he had received a gift, much less a wrapped gift. Jackson picked up the parcel and reverently carried it over to the bed where he sat down and resumed his observation of it.

Virginia Woolf would have had many guesses as to the nature of the gift. Just like the mark on the wall, she would have analyzed the gift for hours without opening it because the nature of the gift, the impact it made on the recipient, would be far more vital to the recipient than the gift itself.

Jackson held his mysterious prize and vowed to treasure it forever.

* * *

Lisa played a video of her brother's Christmas party on his YouTube channel. His wife was pregnant again and was just starting to show. The kids had gotten so big that Lisa wasn't sure if they were indeed her nieces and nephews at first. Her dad was in the background of the video, but he put up his hand to block the camera when it came near him. Her mother was there with Victor and he blocked the camera as well. Lisa laughed at their typical grumpy old man behavior. When the video was over, Lisa visited their Facebook pages. No one had anything terribly interesting to report except her mother. Her mother had written an open letter to Lisa, begging her to come home. The only thing that bothered Lisa about her mother's plea was that she wasn't bothered by it one way or another. These people all seemed like strangers to her. She loved them, but that life was over and it wasn't coming back. They could try to pretend and fake it for a while, but Lisa knew there was no place for her at the family table anymore. There didn't seem to be a place for her at Jackson's table either, but it was the only free seat left for her at all these days.

Lisa tip-toed downstairs and sat cross-legged in the middle of the dining room. The table had been pushed back to block the large open entrance to the room, leaving them a small person-size space to walk through on one side. The walls were soaked in ink, particularly black ink. Notes of lesser importance were scribbled in with multiple colors and pictures occasionally took up space, but for the most part, the wall was a dark force that lassoed them to it and then drove them into madness.

She cast her eyes over to the part on Jackson's branch of the knowledge tree. The unexplainable letter "S" now had a story behind it. Samuel, the man who had changed everything, knew something. Lisa recounted all of her experiences with Samuel, but nothing caught her attention.

"What kind of stuff did you two talk about?"

Lisa jumped when she heard Jackson's voice. She clutched at her chest, startled by his sudden appearance. "I hate it when you do that," she grumbled. He smiled, pleased with himself for still having a light step. "What are you talking about?" she asked, briefly forgetting her train of thought.

Jackson slumped onto the floor next to her. He crossed his arms, a typical mannerism he adopted when he was in serious contemplation mode before the wall. "Samuel," he said. "You were thinking about Samuel."

She was flabbergasted and a little perturbed. "How do you do that?" she demanded.

"Do what?"

"Read my mind like that? And don't say it's because my mind is so feminine and simple."

"Hardly," he exhaled through a laugh.

"So how do you do it?" she pressed.

Jackson shrugged. "Parlor trick. Step one, know your target. Step two, plant seeds in the target's mind. Step three, wait for the predominant seed to grow in the target's mind. I know you. The most recent thing on this wall that we discussed was Samuel. After telling you about him, I knew you wouldn't let it go because you are too obsessive about things you can't rationalize."

He was one to talk about being obsessive.

"Jerk," she insulted.

"Woman," he retaliated.

They exchanged a vicious glare, but started snickering instead. Things appeared to be returning to normal.

"Well?" he prompted, reminding her to answer his question.

"Well what?"

"What did he talk about with you? If he's our missing link, so to speak, then we need to figure out what's actually missing from all of this," Jackson explained, nodding at the wall.

"Nothing really. He misrepresented himself as a Fed and he asked me case related stuff."

"…About…?"

Lisa stiffened. "You."

"My ability to color coordinate my wardrobe or my articulate mastery of the English language?"

Lisa didn't want to talk about her first conversation with Samuel. It had been at a rapid-fire pace and left her feeling uncomfortable and out of sorts. He had twisted the facts to make it seem like she wasn't as much a victim as she was a less than reluctant participant.

"He asked a lot about you and your intentions, about why you wanted to kill Keefe, what your plans were, how you felt about it."

"How did you answer him?"

"I told him that you didn't tell me much, that I figured out most of it, and that you didn't seem intent on killing Keefe, but you wouldn't avoid doing your job."

Jackson didn't visibly react, but she could read his neutral expressions almost as well as she could read someone who in fact had expressions. He didn't seem pleased with her answer, as if she had presented him to his employers in a bad light. "He was checking up on me. That's a standard follow-up to any assignment that gets screwed as royally as ours was." He said "ours" when he meant to say "his," but he never realized his error. Lisa did and she said nothing. "He interviewed you for the Company, not for me. When was this?"

"About an hour after they took you in the ambulance."

Jackson nodded comprehendingly. "What else did you talk about?"

"He wanted to know about your state of mind, if you were distracted or on task. I said you were definitely focused on your work because you tried to kill me."

Jackson's eyes grew wide in disbelief. "He didn't leave it at that," he automatically insisted.

Lisa shuffled and rearranged her legs straight in front of her. She leaned back and propped up on her elbows. "He wanted to know if you were distracted…by me."

"And? Was I?" He found it interesting that Lisa was lying down like a cheerleader working on her tan as she talked about being a distraction for him. She was not strong at connecting A to B in their relationship, so Jackson hoped she was better at doing so on the wall.

"I told him you were obsessed with your job and you'd do the same to anyone." They were quiet for a few seconds before Lisa continued. "He asked about how you attacked me—if you hurt me, how you held the knife, if you—"

"How I held the knife?" Jackson interrupted.

"Yeah. What's so special about that?"

"He suspected that I didn't want to hurt you."

"How do you know?"

"Do you remember how I held the knife?" Lisa shot him a nasty look. "Okay, you remember," he concluded, clearly aware of the ignorance of his question. He posed his hand as if holding the knife as he had six years prior. "This way wouldn't hurt anyone given my size and strength. I'd have to be almost another foot taller for it to do anything and even then, I'd have to pack some serious strength and do some major maneuvering with it. This way looks scarier because it's the famous _Psycho _pose, but it's not really lethal. But this way," he elaborated as he turned his hand to up-thrust the imaginary example knife forward from next to his thumb, "or this way," he said, holding it downward again, but altering his hand position to be horizontal rather than vertical, "would have inflicted severe damage and probably would have killed you."

"You didn't try to kill me," Lisa resolved.

Jackson shook his head. "I've told you plenty of times, I wasn't thinking clearly then. The point is that Samuel figured out the two of us when he was closing the case for the Company. Given the information you provided him with, it's a wonder you weren't killed then." Lisa was unnerved by his revelation, but she swallowed it like the bitter pill it was and moved on. "He must have lied to protect you. To protect us."

Lisa knew what he was saying. Samuel had figured out the nature of the pseudo-relationship between the two of them, and he knew that Lisa would be off limits and under Jackson's jurisdiction probably before Jackson even realized it. His friendship with Jackson was what kept Lisa alive. If someone other than Samuel had been assigned the post-job interview, Lisa would have been killed in a car accident or a parking lot robbery before that week had ended. Samuel hadn't wanted to spy on Lisa because he was already her guardian angel without intending to be one.

"He asked one more thing." Jackson felt his neck muscles tighten in anxiety. He knew where this was going. "He asked if you attempted to make an emotional connection with me. He claimed he asked because I was apparently defending you with my answers."

Jackson was almost flattered, but his disbelief in such a possibility grounded him. "Were you?"

"I answered honestly." Both of them knew she was avoiding the direct answer, but it was a truth, if not the truth, regardless. Jackson was proud of her. She was learning to speak his language, to say what needed to be said instead of what she wanted to say. Perhaps there was hope for her yet.

* * *

New Year's Eve came and "Jack and Elise" once again had to make their excuses to avoid Anna and Frank's annual party. Just like last time, they hid out in the house and refrained from doing anything that would reveal their concealed presence.

The duo sat in front of the television, channel surfing to catch five different countdown specials hosted by irrelevant Reality TV icons and has-been celebrities, and filled with auto-tuned pop stars performing stripteases, bouncing movements to background explosions, and jolting around under the guise of dance choreography. Jackson finally got his chance to see what, exactly, a Lady Gaga was and he actually admitted to liking her, claiming that if they eliminated all the spooky theatricality, there was a talented vocalist underneath. Lisa took the opposite stance, claiming that she was doing fine until she saw the meat dress and the egg hatching performance. He could only hypothesize that Lisa was disturbed by the unethical treatment of the eggs, her favorite pre-dawn companions. She slapped him.

They provided a wildly inappropriate commentary along with everything they viewed, and their lewd remarks were fueled by the alcohol they were downing like cold water on a hot day. They had remained sober, save an odd dinner drink here or there, in their months together. After all they had been through in their half-year as partners, they felt they had earned a night of foolish release.

Jackson entered the living room with a big bowl of chips, a smaller bowl of salsa, and two mixed drinks. "You're the master of balance," Lisa complimented him with a uniquely intoxicated giggle. He snickered too, more than a little drunk himself. He wasn't used to giving up control, but after everything, he selfishly wanted a break.

"I try."

He knelt down so Lisa could help unload the essential food groups from his hands and then he joined her on the floor. Beer bottles, empty and full, surrounded them, along with miscellaneous glasses that once contained other beverages. A whiskey bottle lay forgotten on its side, the first victim of their binge. Leftover cake from dinner with Frank and Anna several nights ago sat on the floor, two forks stabbed into it and awaiting their interest once more. A plate of sugar cookies that they had received as a Christmas present from a neighbor they had met once at Halloween (and whose name they hadn't the slightest memory of) were next to the whiskey bottle, but most of the cookies had fallen onto the floor. A bowl of green grapes were near Lisa's knee as part of an experiment with the red wine earlier. They sat propped up against the couch, watching television with the wide-eyed enthusiasm of two children on Saturday morning.

"I just realized that we could have saved several thousand if we had skipped the furniture. We never use it. We always sit on the floor for some reason." Even when he was drunk, Jackson's computer of a mind was only capable of spewing out logical drunken gibberish as opposed to nonsensical drunken gibberish like most normal people when their brains were soggy and drowning in a pool of booze.

Lisa choked on a chip that she had overloaded with spicy salsa. She coughed and laughed at the same time with the expert precision seen only in sorority girls at a frat party. "I know, right!" She wiped her runny nose and eyes with the back of her hand. "My therapist would have had a ball with this one. Two grown adults who always sit like kids. There's something seriously screwed up with us."

Jackson bit his lip. "Ball?" Both of them snickered juvenilely, not minding the fact that they were leaning onto the other, flailing all over one another with total disregard for personal space or issues with touching. "I hope your therapist is of the Freudian school of thought because that was definitely a slip if I've ever heard one."

Lisa slapped at him yet again, causing him to drip his drink down his chin, and that made them laugh even harder. "You're so wasted," she proclaimed as she parentally wiped his chin with her shirt sleeve.

"And you're the picture of sobriety. I want to be just like you, Lisa Reisert, the epitome of propriety."

Lisa sat up a little more formally, pride beaming from her alcohol-inflamed rosy cheeks. "Damn straight." She started giggling, and her giggles grew into laughter, and the laughter converted into a hard chuckle that featured an unexpected snort. Jackson caught her contagious laughter and found himself going along with her on it.

"What?" he asked, enjoying the spirit of laughing but having no clue why he was even doing it. She shook her head, her face morphing from rosy to painfully red. Jackson dipped his finger in the cake icing and tapped it on her nose, making her yelp. "What?" he repeated. She removed the creamy sugar off her nose, adding it to the collection of stains on the sleeve of her beige sweater.

Lisa threw a grape at him, but instead of hitting him, the grape was snatched from the air by his expert mouth. Lisa gasped in awe and threw another grape. With proficient moves, he swooped toward it and nabbed it just as confidently as he had the first grape. "Ah ha," she said, going for a third attempt. As with the first two times, Jackson rapidly caught the grape from midflight.

"So that sexy mouth of yours is for more than just condescension and misogyny." First of all, she was thrilled beyond reason that she could say such big words in her condition. The minimal slurring in her pronunciation was a bonus. Secondly, that was one secret she had never intended on revealing. His lips were beautiful, just like his lashes, his cheekbones, and those penetrating eyes…

"It's for much, much more," he assured her as he closed in, their foreheads touching as his eyes dominantly burrowed into hers. She could smell his aggression and desire, and he could feel her longing vibrating through her skin. Desperation for consummation was the driving force in the air.

Without breaking contact, Lisa blindly reached into the bowl. She positioned a grape between her lips, half in her mouth, half out. Jackson's full lips stretched out and plucked it from her mouth with only the faintest of touches occurring between them. He made a show of chewing it slowly and intentionally. Lisa snaked her arm around him, brushing her nails against his neck as her hands climbed toward his hair. She lost her fingers amid the darkness as she attempted to pull him across the less than an inch that still separated them. He resisted at first, his body tense and aware of the usual protests that he had trapped in the back of his mind for the night, but she felt him starting to surrender.

A loud boom made them both jump apart and go on alert. Lisa felt around under the couch cushion for the gun hidden in the living room. When she found it, she wasted no time in removing the safety, cocking it, and holding it at the ready as she stood against the wall on the opening side of the door while Jackson waited behind the door. Lisa peeked through the window and saw nothing, and Jackson peered through the peep hole of the door. The loud boom sounded again and Lisa saw colors at the top of the window.

"Fireworks," Lisa sighed. Judging by the hard expression on his chiseled cheeks, Jackson had figured it out at the same time she had. She secured the gun and returned it to the couch. Jackson ran his hand over his face roughly, as if to sober up himself. He flipped on the lamp beside the couch.

"At least our reaction time didn't suffer," he muttered as he realized what a mess they had made on the floor. "We were foolish. We let our guard down."

In the background, the countdown on television changed from five, to four, to three, to two, and lastly to one.

"Happy New Year, Leese."

"Happy New Year, Jackson."

* * *

**January, 2012**

Several days later, Lisa sat in the dining room at 3:32 a.m. with her elbow on the table and her fist supporting her cheek. Her mother's blog filled her laptop screen. Her mother was still summoning Lisa home, but today she shared another set of news with the internet world: she was engaged to Victor.

Lisa didn't know Victor aside from their one meeting at Thanksgiving a few years ago. He had seemed alright to her, not standing out in her mind one way or another. Her mother had been happy and things appeared to be perfect for both of them. For as far back as Lisa could remember, her mother had been the backbone of the family, tending to their needs without hesitation or complaint. She had been supportive of Lisa's father as well, but after years of being second to everything else in his life, she had longed for freedom, and that freedom had driven her into the arms of Victor. As long as her mother was happy, Lisa was happy, figuratively speaking, of course.

It was incredible that her mother could find joy later in life when Lisa couldn't find it at any time in hers. She wasn't jealous of her mother, but she was certainly troubled by the idea that contentment was actually possible for everyone but her, even her mother. Lisa took her empty tea mug to the kitchen sink and washed it. She felt like one of the soap bubbles: normal looking, perhaps even pretty on the outside, but she was thin and breakable, and it was only a matter of time before she completely popped and ceased to exist. She dried the mug and placed it in the cabinet. The newly installed street lights made the neighborhood brighter than before, so she stared out the window in fascination at the inexplicable shadows that haunted the night world. One day, she might turn into one of them—a shadow. She would only be visible to the world when someone as lost as she was gazed upon her direction in the dark, but she would inevitably disappear upon the rise of day.

"Good morning," she said to the window.

"Good morning," the dark and transparent reflection of Jackson said to her, his image in the window, but his voice behind her. She turned around and propped up against the sink. "I figured you'd be up."

"Yeah. Do you ever get a gut feeling?" she asked enigmatically. Jackson tilted his head robotically as he analyzed her. "Probably not," she answered for him.

"Something feels wrong to you." It was a statement, not a question.

"My mom's getting married."

"I see."

Lisa narrowed her eyes at him and inadvertently mimicked him by tilting her head not unlike how he had done seconds earlier. "What do you see?"

"You're upset that your mother is getting married before you."

"Such a chauvinistic response."

"It's true."

"It's not," she swore to him. "I just feel like it's yet another reminder that I'm not welcome in this world. I see people getting married, having kids, living in homes, laughing, dancing, drinking, vacationing, having normal relationships, and I can see it, but I can't have it." On many occasions, she had looked at Jackson as if he were an alien among humans, but now she wondered if he was genuinely as foreign as he seemed or if it was all part of the job, the character he assumed to maintain distance for clarity of vision. "Do you ever feel that way?" she wondered aloud as she mentally prepared herself for the condescension she knew he would direct toward her for her sentimental inquiry.

"Not anymore. I've accepted my fate. I accepted it a long time ago," was his neutral answer.

"Jackson, I don't know if I can accept it."

He retrieved a bottle of water from the refrigerator and took a measured sip as he leaned against the counter a few feet away. "You don't want to accept it because you're you and you're not a lost cause. This is just a phase, Leese, and one day you won't even remember finding something in common with me. You'll outgrow this." It was funny that he said "outgrow" because she recalled thinking how she had outgrown her family.

"Do you see the rest of the world as this superficial collective of insincere individuals, people who say things and express feelings that don't exist because they are too selfish for those things to be real? Do you feel like you're superior because you've moved past all those human clichés? Do you feel like you're the first of a new type of person and there's no one else like you yet? Because I do," she definitively stated. "At first I thought I was left behind and alone, and now I look at it like they are the ones living the lie, not me."

Jackson took another swig of water before putting the cap back on it and returning it to the fridge. He briskly rubbed the cold exposed skin of his arms that his short sleeve gray shirt didn't cover. "I'm not so philosophical. I just know that I'm with them, but I'm not one of them." He effectively ended the conversation by strolling into the dining room and sitting down at the table so he could stare uselessly at the overwhelming wall.

* * *

"Let's go over it again," Lisa said around noon. They had changed out of their pajamas around 7 a.m. and had been lounging out in the dining room since then. They had stood, paced, sat on the floor, sat on the table, sat in the chairs, reclined on the floor, and done everything else in an attempt to jumpstart the cognitive process, to ignite the one clue that would set the Company aflame.

"Okay" Jackson resumed. "We were drinking at the bar. The phone rang. It was the Liaison for the assignment."

"Name?"

"Unknown. Managers use their first names. Liaisons use regularly changed codenames. Superiors use fictional names."

"Character names or just names they make up?"

"It depends on the rank of the individual."

Lisa nodded. "Okay, so you got the call…"

"…And I was told we were on schedule after all."

"And the call on the plane?"

Jackson exhaled. "It was a Superior. The Piper." Lisa scribbled down some notes on the wall with the Piper's name. "He used a voice modulator, so there's no way I can recognize him if I ever hear his real voice. He was just checking up on me himself to make sure I didn't fuck up."

"Which you did," Lisa gloated proudly.

"Which I did," he imitated her in a higher-pitched, mock-feminine voice.

"And the Piper followed-up in prison."

"He did."

"Why did he want you dead? Aside from the fact that you screwed up."

Jackson ran his hands through his hair and pulled at it temperamentally. He puffed his cheeks blew out dejectedly. "I screwed up. That was enough."

"But it seems so personal," Lisa pressed. "If he wanted you dead, he wouldn't have sent so many people to confront you. He would have bribed a guard into poisoning your food or slitting your throat while you slept. Guards could have ganged up on you and shot you dead with the story that you attacked them. Any number of men would have made you their bitch and then snapped your neck like a twig."

Jackson blinked hard. "You're scary."

Lisa put her hand on her hip. "I'm serious."

"I know, and the fact that you came up with that is scary. You're absolutely right, though. There were plenty of non-confrontational ways he could have killed me, but he wanted to make a point to me. He wanted it to be a man's death. It was a matter of honor." Jackson hopped off the table and walked to the wall, looking at the Piper's name as if he had experienced an epiphany. "It was personal," he said deliberately, repeating Lisa's assumption. He wheeled around to face her. "It was about you. Shit…the Piper knew about you too!" He commenced a troubled march, his arms slinging at his sides and his fingers flexing into fists.

Lisa approached him and put a hand on his shoulder to calm his jittery pacing. "The Piper knew…?"

"What Samuel knew. Samuel didn't tell him, so he must have figured it out. I don't know how. He knew you were a sensitive issue for me." It was amazing to Lisa how many different ways Jackson could say he cared about her without making it sound affectionate or loving. At first, she resented his vocabulary and how he referenced her, but now she felt oddly flattered and special. "The Piper wanted me dead because I failed the assignment, but he wanted me killed hand-to-hand as a matter of honor." At Lisa's confusion, he elaborated. "I became emotional about my target and as punishment for feeling, he gave me some more feelings to experience, such as fear, distrust, paranoia, anxiety. If I never knew when my next assault was coming or who it was coming from, I'd feel things. It would mess with my mind. He was doing to me what I had done to botch the job."

"So the Piper knew how you felt." She intentionally avoided saying "about me" as to keep Jackson on track. "My question is this: why didn't he kill me immediately? Or why didn't he do it at some point over the course of six years? There were more than enough opportunities."

"Samuel reported you as someone of no consequence, so you weren't a liability. Killing you would only draw attention."

"Do you really believe that?" she asked, vocalizing the side of the argument that usually belonged to Jackson and his dubious logic.

Jackson gave legitimate consideration to her suspicion. "Maybe he wanted me to live and he was saving you to use against me after he was bored with his psychological warfare."

"How?" Jackson wasn't sure if she was asking for the purpose of perhaps understanding something that was beyond their comprehension for the time being or if she was morbidly curious. He pondered the question and all its possible answers.

"Maybe they tried to influence Samuel…to turn him against me."

"Did he ever suggest that?"

Jackson shook his head. "Maybe we're looking at this wrong. Maybe they were going to use you against me and let Samuel continue to feed me the information. If the Company reached you somehow without Samuel knowing, he would tell me everything and I would…_react _to it."

"Josh," she supplied for him. "It always goes back to him for you, doesn't it? I'm starting to think you have some sort of man crush on him," Lisa noted with the casual ease of a therapist.

She tried not to grin as she heard Jackson make a noise that sounded like a growl. "No, I don't have a 'man crush,'" he said, and she could practically hear the air quotes. "Like I've said before, don't you think it's odd that he just happened to enter your life about that time?"

"No." Lisa didn't like the determined expression set in stone on Jackson's face. Josh was a real issue for him and she initially thought it was just him ridiculing her, reminding her that she was too lost to be in a relationship with any sweet, normal guy. Now, however, she finally saw the truth. She tugged Jackson's shoulder back, turning him around to face her. "You don't have to be jealous. There was never anything with Josh. At all," she maintained, keeping deep, unwavering eye contact with him.

"I'm not jealous," he denied with an awkward laugh. It was perhaps Jackson's most human moment yet and Lisa found it as startling as she found it almost…cute.

"He was a friend to me when I needed one, nothing more. I'm just sorry I couldn't have been a better friend to him. Don't let him bother you."

"He doesn't bother me," Jackson maintained.

"You've never met the guy, yet you carry him with you right here," she said, gently touching her fingertips to his temple. Her hand softly trailed down his cheek to his jaw, past his neck, and landed on his chest. After she said the words, she remembered having that conversation with Josh about Jackson, ironically enough.

Recognition sparked in Jackson's blue eyes. "If you inaccurately believe that I'm jealous, then the Company must have believed I was jealous as well. If they sent Josh to trigger my jealousy, he could have drawn me out and forced me into a public scene and—"

Lisa's index finger pressed firmly against his lips, shushing him. "You think too much."

* * *

Agent King still hadn't progressed very far on the Rippner case. He took a sip of his black coffee and made a face when he realized how cold it had become. He licked the bitter taste off his thin lips.

Since receiving that picture of Rippner and Reisert at the fair in Connecticut, about two dozen more sightings, complete with pictures and occasionally even witness statements, had been reported. The two had been spotted in suburbs around the nation, from Alaska to Maine, Washington to Florida, and everywhere in between. His gut argued that they were in Connecticut, as it had been the point of origin in this game of "No, I'm Spartacus!" confessions, but some of the witnesses in other places made him doubt any and all of it. When he followed-up on the Connecticut theory by interviewing local store employees and dropping by random neighborhoods, no one recognized them. Even the surveillance footage that he pulled from several grocery stores came up empty. He would not have the full support of his department and its resources until he came up with some solid evidence. Two dozen manipulated images weren't going to cut it.

Someone was aware of his role in all of this and they were playing with him. He didn't like playing games.

"King, line four," one of the junior agents in the bullpen called out to him as she stood up and peered over her cubicle wall a few units away.

He waved his thanks. The dark blond agent picked up the phone from where it sat next to the framed photo of himself with his girlfriend at his thirty-fifth birthday party last year. "King," he answered.

"Don't attempt to trace this call," a voice disguised with a modulator ordered.

"Who is this?"

"A friend, to you and to Jackson Rippner. You are dealing with people out of your league. They will kill you, your pretty little girlfriend Stacy." King felt a twinge of dread trickle down his spine, but he compartmentalized it and focused on the call. "Your mom, your dad, your siblings, and even the family pets. You'd probably frown upon that. Me, I don't care about you one way or another, but I do care about Jackson Rippner and Lisa Reisert. They are victims of some untouchable people and you are chasing them down like common criminals."

A dry laugh sneaked out before Jim King could stop it. "They _are_ criminals, well, Rippner at least. As for Reisert, I think he has her and I'm going to find her."

"You're trying to save her?"

"I am."

"You'll just lead them to her and get her killed. Rippner has her, but he's keeping her safe. If you go after them, you kill them, your family, your friends, and yourself. Drop the case. Back off. Pretend none of this ever happened."

"I can't do that. Whoever you are, I think you know that. That's why you're trying to scare me."

"I'm not trying to scare you. I'm trying to tell you what you already know because sometimes people need to hear what they already know so they can make the right decision."

"And if I don't back off?"

"I won't hurt you," the voice seemed to surrender. "But I definitely won't stop them when they come after you. My only concern is for Rippner and Reisert. Now back off."

The caller disconnected and Agent King was left holding the phone with a dial tone blaring in his ear. He put the receiver on the cradle and looked at his picture of Stacy again. His eyes then roamed over to the next picture, a family portrait from when he was a kid, a few years after his mom and late stepdad had gotten married. He opened his desk drawer, pulled out the Rippner file, and stared down at the individual pictures of Jackson Rippner and Lisa Reisert. He then flipped to the first piece of evidence, the picture from the fair. A new version had been edited to single out the two of them and enhance the details in the image. To the common eye, they seemed like two happy lovers, but that was not the case and King would make sure this charade ended as peacefully as possible. There was no way he was backing off or giving up, not when justice, the truth, and an innocent woman needed him.

He had felt the drive to do the right thing all his life and this situation was no different. His family would understand.

* * *

Lisa closed the lid to her laptop and sat motionless on her bed. Tears wouldn't come, but she could feel her eyes become painfully dry and red. They itched and burned. Her breathing was shallow and her throat slammed shut. Somehow she managed to slip off the bed and stand, her body violently shaking as if she were having convulsive spasms. She clutched the doorknob and forced her mind to communicate to her hand how to operate the door. The most basic motor skills had become overwhelmingly impossible obstacles that she couldn't master.

She took a few steps to the room next door and tried to knock on it, but her loose, trembling fist was as useful as an asphyxiating fish seizing violently. When her body completely gave out, she buckled against the door with a thud and she couldn't stop herself as she slid down it. A wail escaped her lips and she sounded like a wounded baby animal, scared, in pain, and alone. The door opened and Jackson's quick reflexes allowed him to drop to the floor and catch her before she completely collapsed and hurt herself. He lowered them to the floor together. Tears still wouldn't come, but her face was contorted in agony and all she could do was audibly cry the most gut-wrenching sound Jackson had ever heard in his life.

He pulled her into his lap as they remained on the floor in the threshold to his bedroom. He completely engulfed her with his arms, making her feel small and protected by his all-encompassing hold.

"Shhh, shhh," he pleaded, trying to help her compose herself. She was the most broken he had ever seen, and this was a level of distress that was so intense that it actually frightened him. He was terrified that she was going to give herself a stroke. He rocked her back and forth in his arms with nurturing devotion as he repeated his gentle shushing mantra and stroked her hair out of her face.

"Lisa, sweetheart, what's wrong? What happened?" If her mind had been clear, she would have heard her father's voice coming from Jackson's lips. He never called her tender names like "sweetheart"—that was her father's routine.

"My mom. They killed my mom!" she bawled as her salty tears broke the levee and drowned them both in the flood.

* * *

**TBC…**


	10. Ch 9: Their Mothers' Eyes

**Chapter 9: Their Mothers' Eyes**

* * *

**January, 2012**

Jackson held Lisa for hours on the floor with their collapsed bodies half in his bedroom and half in the hallway. The location alone was figurative in many ways. He would have laughed at the symbolism of it if the circumstances had not been so dire, and that seemed to be his reaction to many of the situations he had encountered in the last few months. He had stopped stroking Lisa's hair and whispering soothing sounds of affection over an hour ago when she had essentially fallen unconscious. A restful sleep was not on the forecast for her in the foreseeable future, so passing out from exhaustion was a blessing. When he gazed down at her seemingly tranquil form lying helplessly in his arms, his blood boiled with the acidic fire of hatred and anger for those who dared to bring this war to their front door and into Lisa's heart. His hands throbbed with a need for violent release upon his former associates. It was a selfish, primitive reaction, but it came naturally and he didn't dismiss it.

His left leg had gone numb from its awkward position under Lisa's limp body. He gently elevated her just enough that he could slide his leg out from under her and straighten it so that the blood would once again flow through the pins-and-needles limb. She was in such a deep slumber that she hadn't even twitched in reaction to his miniscule movements. Confident that he could relocate her without disturbing her, Jackson lifted Lisa with him and carried her into her bedroom. He deposited her onto the bed as if she were made of crystal and covered her under her heavy winter blankets. For the first time, he cursed himself for not building a proper house. He had been more focused on the occupationally relevant aspects of the house and had forgotten things like a fireplace or furnace. The house stayed warm during the winter thanks to the central heating unit (and their high utility bills), but it wasn't nearly as cozy or energy efficient as it could or should be.

Jackson's analytical blue orbs lingered upon Lisa and basked in the uninterrupted pleasure of being able to exclusively observe her without the possibility of discovery. She was dead to the world after crying and shaking herself into sickly feebleness. He lightly brushed his fingers through her hair, smoothing it away from her face. She would no doubt resent him for taking advantage of her invalidity for his own warped purposes, but it was his priority, his reward for being such a supportive faux husband.

He switched off the lamp next to her bed and took her laptop with him as he left the room.

* * *

Jackson's mission was temporarily altered. It was no longer about figuring out what Lisa knew. His job was to determine how the Company got to her mother and if there were any weak links associated with Lisa or any other family member.

He flipped open the computer and the screen came to life. A website was already loaded. _Tragedy Strikes Missing Woman's Family_ was the headline. The news clip from the Dallas television station's website included all of her family except her father in attendance at the house when the reporter was covering the story. Lisa's brothers did most of the talking and in the background, her mother's boyfriend Victor sat brooding in a dark corner of the room. His eyes were downcast and his complexion was ashen, making the gray in his dark hair stand out more noticeably. He looked sloppy, as if he hadn't taken the time to prepare his appearance for television, much less for a respectable day. Jackson noted every movement Victor made—how his eyes occasionally flickered upward for a quick glance at his surroundings, how his right fingers flexed against his resolutely gripped left fist, how his jaw remained locked and rigid. His breathing was even, not shallow and not labored.

Victor was Company.

Jackson did a quick online search for Victor and came up empty-handed save the expected false documentation that came with every Company job. He had been a Company plant in Lisa's family. Her mother had been the most vulnerable family member because she was weaker than Joe, less prominent than her two doctor sons, and more easily accessible than Lisa. If the Company wished to make a statement to Lisa, their best bet was to do so with her mother. Victor had been with Lisa's mother for several years and he had been more than a boyfriend. They were live-in lovers. Lisa said that they seemed normal and happy—not too over the top, not too fake or suspicious. From the looks of the pictures her mother had posted on Facebook, she and Victor were happy together. Then again, based on the appearance that Lisa and Jackson had given Anna and Frank, they were a happy couple as well.

Jackson viewed some of the home videos of the family that Lisa's brother had posted on his YouTube account. Victor was in them and he, like Joe, avoided the camera's attention in a typical older male sort of way. Victor had not only been a plant in her life, he had also been undercover on a single assignment for years and that certainly had to mess with his mind. It was impossible to tell just yet if Lisa's mother had died at the hands of a Manager doing his job or if she had died at the hands of a mentally unstable Manager who had been in the trenches far too long. Managerial training made them great at in-depth short-term assignments, but when it came time for long-term assignments, they tended to crack under the pressure. It was like making an Olympian who specialized in diving swim from Cuba to Florida or making a speed skater become a figure skater. It was the wrong skill applied in a high pressure setting and there was no way the Manager could exit the assignment in top form.

After several hours, Jackson shut down the computer and returned upstairs to Lisa's room. He cracked open the door to sneak a peek at Lisa and she was fast asleep. He let the door remain ajar so he could hear her if she needed him.

In the solitude of his own bedroom, Jackson crawled on top of his bed and fell asleep on his stomach, too tired to concern himself with things as insignificant as covering up his cold body.

* * *

Around 4:30 a.m., Jackson heard a faint sound drifting through the wall and their open bedroom doors. It was Lisa's hard tears quaking her already drained body. She was clearly trying to cry into her pillow for privacy or out of respect for his right to silence, but he didn't know which. Jackson longed to go to her, to hold her and promise her that everything would be alright, but they both knew that everything wasn't alright and it most assuredly wasn't going to be alright anytime soon. It was going to be worse, much worse. His dominant, logical side told him to stay away, far, far away from the broken creature next door. She was a Siren calling him to her rocky death trap and she would destroy him by letting him believe that he could be her savior. She was drawing him into her defenselessness and it would mutate his very nature, ultimately transforming him into her inoperable co-dependent.

Part of him, the component of his psyche that he tried to suppress, managed to work its way up to the surface in an attempt to lure him into savoring her agony. She was the heartless woman who had ruined his life and took pride in knocking him down at every chance she got. She lied to him, led him on, brought him to the point where he was starting to put her needs first, not out of obligation or convenience, but because he received emotional satisfaction from treating her better than he treated himself. She would betray him again, as all women inevitably betrayed men, and he would once more find himself a mutilated man on the floor, wheezing as he watched her celebrate over his dying carcass.

In the end, he wasn't sure which aspect of his personality won out. He found himself lying on his back listening to the tears wretch their way out of her eyes, the sounds choking from her locked throat, and the moans riding out on waves of exertion. He felt something when he secretly attended the symphony of her misery and it lured him back for more.

* * *

For the next several days, a routine was born. Jackson would far from accidentally overhear Lisa's secret indulgence of her pain at night, and during the day, the two would sit at the wall and look at it as if they were actually thinking constructive thoughts. He spent most of his time wondering about her while she blankly looked toward their scribbled notes, her eyes obviously unfocused and not seeing anything. They said very little in the course of a day. Jackson would make dinner and set a plate before her as if she were a sick child who had come home early from school, but she usually just raked her fork through whatever he cooked to give the illusion that she had eaten more than just a few polite bites. She did drink a lot of water, though, and he was pleased to see that she wasn't going to dehydrate before she died of starvation.

* * *

One morning, Jackson brought out the trash for curb-side pick-up. He usually sneaked it out before the sun came up as to avoid contact with anyone in their small neighborhood, but on this day, he was late because he had fallen asleep after listening to Lisa. He wanted to experience guilt over taking such wicked enjoyment from her pain, but her pain made him feel and anything that could make him feel held the same status and pull over him as a drug.

"Jack, long time no see!" Frank called out from across the street where he was taking out his own trash. Anna was backing her car out of the driveway and she honked the horn as a greeting to Jackson as she waved at him and then to Frank. Jackson automatically waved back, not taking the extra step to appear as if he actually meant anything by it.

"How's everything going? I haven't seen much of you guys since before the holidays." Jackson slammed shut the lid on the large black garbage can.

"We've been busy," he noncommittally stated, not bothering to slow his stride toward the house. Frank continued with him.

"How's Elise?"

Jackson stopped and face-to-face acknowledged Frank for the first time during their brief meeting. "She's sick. Her mother died last week. It hasn't been easy," he softly explained. He didn't have to put much acting into what he was saying because he was speaking the absolute truth.

"Oh, Jack, man, I'm so sorry to hear that," Frank responded empathetically. "It's always hard losing a parent. Even when you hate your parents, you still love your parents."

"I wouldn't go that far," Jackson muttered beneath his breath, but Frank didn't pick up on what he said.

"I can't imagine what Elise is going through right now. My parents were much older when they died and it makes it a little easier, but Elise's mom had to be what, fifty-something, early-sixties?"

Jackson nodded affirmatively. "I don't mean to be short with you, but I really need to get back to her. We just need some alone time until she can get herself together, you understand."

"Absolutely, yeah. I'm so sorry." Jackson started for the door. "Give Elise our regards and tell her we're praying for her." Jackson resisted the urge to give his own commentary about the nature of prayer, much less the casually-used, socially-expected vow to pray for someone when most people didn't pray or value prayer in the first place.

"Thanks," was Jackson's clipped response as he slipped inside the house and locked the door.

When he made it to the kitchen, he saw Lisa standing in front of the ever-looming dining room wall. He walked up behind her and put his arm around her back supportively. "It's good to see you up," he told her. She rolled her eyes at him, doubt sparking distantly behind the sorrow shrouding her face. "I don't lie, remember?"

She reluctantly accepted it. "Thanks."

"Are you better…at all?"

She nodded. "Yeah. We need to get back to work," she insisted, standing tall by sheer force of will alone.

It was Jackson's turn to nod. He patted her back in a friendly gesture before he released her and took his place atop the table.

* * *

After several nights of listening to Lisa's suffering from the comfort of his bed, Jackson found himself eavesdropping at the wall that separated their bedrooms. His ear was touching the white painted surface and his arms held his knees tightly to his chest. If the room had padded walls, the slightly irregular gleam in his eye would have made the picture complete as he sat there like a lunatic taking in the wails of another human being's torment. Every night without fail, Lisa would crumble, and every night without fail, Jackson would listen. She maintained appearances during the day, giving the illusion that she was able to compartmentalize like the expert robot she lived with, but at night, she shoved her face into her arms or her pillow and let the waterworks erupt like a geyser.

* * *

For the first few nights, he listened in bed, but for the following several nights, he attended the vile show at the wall. The next place in his progression closer to the source of the sobbing was against Lisa's door. He sat there with his ear strategically placed in a desperate endeavor to absorb every ounce of despair that dripped out of her soul and use it as fuel in his own body.

He had originally thought that he was perverse in taking gratification from her distress, but when he moved to his bedroom wall for his snooping parties, he realized it was instead an interest in discovering the nature of humanity. Tears were foreign to him. They were a physiological reaction caused by stimuli. For example, when the stimuli called Lisa shot him, the physiological reaction was pain that resulted in moisture in his eyes (which, he was proud to say, never left his eyes). He couldn't recall ever crying for the purpose of emotions. All of his tears, what few there had been in the course of his life, were the product of some physical ailment that had tricked his body into reacting in its own way without the consent of his higher thought processes. His acute auditory observation of Lisa from their shared wall permitted him the opportunity to notice the nuances of human behavior without the uncomfortable inclusion of himself in the process.

From her door, however, Jackson became conscious of how his once aberrant satisfaction from her anguish had turned into inquisitiveness and had then grown into the desire to comprehend the origin of her reaction for the purpose of designing and implementing a counteractive technique that could cure her. Emotions were body parts no different than lungs or a throat, and when—for a random, hypothetical example—a lung took a bullet or a throat was stabbed with a cartoonish ink pen, the body received treatment and began the healing process. There was a healing process with emotions and if he could understand how her mother's death had destroyed her, how it communicated something to her other than the fact that she no longer had a mother who was alive, then he could cure her. He could save her. He could be her hero.

Bereavement was beyond his comprehension. Life and death were not unlike a video game to him. It was an odd comparison, but it wasn't entirely inaccurate. Like a game, players in life must go through a series of obstacles and they can obtain rewards, treasures, and even relationships along the way, but in the end, they were either victorious and lived to see another day or they died, and those who were victorious died later anyway. How losing a relative, particularly an older one, served as a traumatic experience was too psychologically and spiritually taxing for him to solve. He would rather look at death as an end to life, something to be respected when the death came in a positive way (such as Lisa's grandmother), or to be pitied or ignored when it was dishonorable (such as those he had to kill to save his own life).

Besides, it wasn't like anyone would ever mourn his own death.

* * *

**February, 2012**

The grieving process had evolved from a two week experience into a three week drama. By day, Lisa quietly went about life as usual, speaking enough to give off the appearance of normalcy, but avoiding that unique level of interactivity that she shared with Jackson because it was too hard to be so "happy" again just yet. Jackson wanted to scream at her, to rant and rave in her face until she cried tears of fear and humiliation, and then forced herself to toughen-up and return to normal, but he didn't. He wanted to shake her, hit her, make her feel alive again, but he didn't. He wanted to hug her and hold her in his arms, sheltering her from the world and swearing to destroy everyone on the planet who dared to inflict even a moment's worth of discomfort in her, but he couldn't.

He didn't know how to react or what to do. He had never been around another person for so long a period of time. After being trapped with her in confined quarters for over seven months, he wasn't able to see clearly anymore. This was why Managers became self-destructive during long-term missions. He wasn't prepared mentally or emotionally for the stress. The master strategist he had been would have been able to solve this puzzle and defuse this situation in a matter of minutes, but the man she was turning him into could do nothing but breathe in deeply the smell of her salty tears in the air.

* * *

She had cried herself into a coughing fit and then a long silence followed. Jackson felt his eyelids growing heavy as the weighty silence in the house lulled him to sleep. He slept very little these days because of his desire to attend to Lisa from afar. As he sat by the door, he did the math on his reaction to her. His abnormal pleasure from her pain had turned into curiosity at the nature of her pain and grew into a desire to cure her pain, but now as his mind downshifted toward sleep mode, he acknowledged that his current reaction was a longing to cure Lisa's pain by making it his own, to heal her and save her, to keep her pure and untouched by the evils of the world, including his own evil. All of the pain he was in over her pain was all such a pain in the—

The door abruptly opened and Jackson fell into her bedroom. He peered up at her as she stared down at him, upside-down in his vision. "You're like a psychic vampire feeding off of my energy. And here I thought you were fairly _balanced _in your emotions."

Jackson shuffled to his feet. "Excuse me?" he replied, feigning nonchalant ignorance.

Lisa skipped the pretenses this time. "You've been spying for weeks," she told him bluntly. She pawed at the moisture on her cheeks with the palm of her hand and then again with the back of her hand. "I didn't realize it until you moved to your bedroom wall. You're not as stealthy as you think you are."

He was stealthy. She was just getting better at fine-tuning her senses. "I was…concerned," he said, not sure if he liked using that word. He didn't want to give any impressions one way or another.

"Wondering if I would be destroyed by my feminine weaknesses?"

"Something like that."

"I know you mean well, in your own way," she commented, and he seemed complimented by her acknowledgement. "Truth be told, I think it was comforting enough just knowing another person was there…knowing _you _were there." She sighed. "I don't know if I should have opened up to you or not…"

"I probably wouldn't have been of any use to you," he declared honestly and almost apologetically.

She nodded. "I didn't want to drop any of this on you." She wiped at her right eye, apparently sensing an escaping puddle of moisture on the brink of her lashes. "I can't handle this sort of thing like you can and I didn't want to totally fall apart on you and make you have to deal with another one of my breakdowns. That's why I hid it, or tried to anyway." She bit her lower lip as she waited for his response, one that she believed would be in the vein of anger.

The anger never came. "I figured as much. I didn't want you to be alone. Even if that meant stalking you through the wall."

"We should all stick to doing what we're best at," she joked, her lip curling just a little in a small smile.

"Again, I figured as much," he returned, copying her small smile with his own. "Are you okay, Leese, really?" It disturbed her sometimes how much Jackson was not only an extension of herself, but also a direct mirror of her father and all those who had surrounded her. It was as if traits had been collected from all those she knew and they were put into Jackson under the program label "L.I.S.A.: Lisa Interaction Skills Acquired."

She crossed her arms and looked around her room contemplatively. Her bedroom was as Spartan as his own, with only the bare essentials in furniture and accessories, and nothing to signify it as a place inhabited by a regular resident. "I will be. Losing my mom hurts a lot, but selfishly enough, the thing that bothers me most is that I have to carry the burden of knowing that I killed her."

"No!" Jackson corrected, closing the space between them. He pulled her to him without thinking about it. Her arms automatically wrapped around his neck. "No," he whispered forcefully in her ear. He could feel cold moisture soaking the shoulder of his t-shirt as she silently cried on him. "You didn't kill your mother. They did. Your mother loved you and any loving mother would not think twice about dying in place of her child." That was an unexpected insight. "You're not a killer." They both knew that she had killed before and she was capable of killing, but Jackson saw it only as self-defense; therefore, it did not count. For tonight only, she accepted that interpretation.

They stood together for a few minutes. Jackson swayed ever so slightly to rock her in his arms soothingly as he rubbed her back to calm and comfort her. When Lisa pulled away, Jackson assumed she was ready to be alone again and he stepped back to leave. She grabbed his hand and held him there, her eyes silently speaking to him. Her instructions were clear: _stay_.

With Lisa leading him, Jackson joined her in bed. He spooned around her, burying her under the protective shielding of his arms and leg, blocking her from the sight of all the scary monsters that lurked under her bed and in her mind. She looped her arm around his, holding him to her with a firm grip that left no room for misinterpretation. She required his companionship.

He angled his head to rest on hers, his jaw reclining within the curve of her neck so that his lips were only a slight movement from her ear. They stayed together like that for about ten minutes before Jackson spoke.

"Margaret Dillon was born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi," he began casually. "She loved it there. When she was fourteen, she went to Biloxi with some friends and met Bill Ritter. He was a twenty-nine-year-old officer stationed at Keesler Air Force Base. In a few weeks, they were married. They lied to everyone, even on the marriage certificate, and said she was nineteen. Just under a year later, I was born."

Lisa's heart skipped a beat. For months, she and Jackson had lived under an umbrella that concealed so many things about his life—his past, his mysteriously murdered father, his contradictorily misogynistic yet pseudo-feminist perspective on women, the definition of his ever-present storm cloud of shame. He had promised to share his story with her when she was ready and not a moment before, and apparently she had progressed to the appropriate stage of readiness. A knot of apprehension formed in her stomach as she realized that she was troubled by what she might learn about him.

Jackson's thumb stretched out from his hand to rub the soft skin of her upper arm. "My mother wanted us to move to Jackson so she could be with her family and friends, but my father wouldn't let her. She tried to get him to agree to at least let her take me to visit her family, but that didn't happen either. She finally managed to contact her family, but they had disowned her. They considered her a slut and told her that she would burn for her sins. My father found out that she had reached out to her family and he claimed it had been behind his back and against him. As punishment, he put in for a transfer as often as possible, sometimes even through the illegal and unofficial Good Ole Boys club, so we ended up moving from base to base across the country. I never had a home longer than a few months. Honestly, I don't even remember nearly half of the cities we were in or how long we were there."

Lisa sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with her free hand, and Jackson hoped it was for her own problems rather than the secret he was about to share with her. His statements were unburdened by emotion, but there was an impending sense of doom and dread in his inflections.

He continued, his voice indifferent and disconnected as if he were reading her the selections from a take-out menu. "My father wanted a son and he was disappointed when he got me instead. I was worse than a daughter. I was a wuss and a wuss can't grow into a man. When I was young, he took me hunting with him, but I cried because I didn't like seeing the animals get killed. He tried taking me fishing, but I refused to participate after he caught a fish and I saw how painful it looked for the fish to have a metal hook through its mouth. I hated cruelty." Lisa's dried-out eyes filled up with tears that burned her raw eye sockets. The notion of Jackson, who was once a boy so loving and wholesome, being forced to endure something that his soul protested as wrong made her sick. It would seem his destiny was to become a monster, if he wanted it or not.

"He put me in sports, but that was just as big a disaster. I couldn't run. I had horrible coordination. I was better at math class and I usually preferred doing my homework instead of having father-son male bonding time." Lisa had tried to picture little Jackson a few months ago, imagining him dancing with a faceless figure who was his mother. She transposed that same image onto a large dinner table filled with books and notebooks, and she momentarily felt lighter at the idea of seeing him so small yet intensely devoted to his…"job."

"Every single time I failed at being a man, he would smack my mother since it was _obviously _her fault."

Lisa inhaled sharply and bit down on her lip, hoping that Jackson hadn't heard her reaction. A story like this was terrible to hear at any time, but to hear it after the death of her own mother—it was all too soon. She tried to force herself into being stoic so she wouldn't make any additional sounds that might suggest she pitied him. Pity was the last thing he would want from her or anyone else.

"I wouldn't hunt, so he hit her for making me a loser. I wouldn't fish, so he hit her for babying me from my obligation as a man. When I fell down at soccer or never even kicked the ball, he beat her up for making me 'girly.' Every failure I had as a man, he took it out on her. And she ate it up," Jackson lamented bitterly. He paused for a moment before continuing so he could either gather his thoughts or compose himself. "She apologized profusely and gave me a stern talk about the importance of a man-to-man relationship with my father. He'd beat her some more and she'd go on smiling, covering the damage and acting like the perfect housewife. She'd go to church on Sunday, dragging me behind her in one hand and hanging onto my father with the other. She praised Jesus and went home to get the shit beat out of her for whatever reason." He laughed and it made the story sadder.

"I liked my mother," Jackson admitted, his voice as emotional as someone who had just said he preferred the color red over blue. He liked her, but he didn't love her. "She was always there for me. She nurtured me and supported me no matter what. She didn't care if I succeeded—only that I tried. I was starting to resent this about her as I got older because I realized that the world was only concerned about what actions I could accomplish, not what actions I could merely try. My father more than proved that every day." Silent hot tears streamed down Lisa's cheeks and landed on her pillow.

"My father gave up on athletics and decided to go back to hunting. Instead of animals, we shot targets. I was good with a bow and arrow. I was great with a knife. I was better with a gun. We started out with a classic BB gun rifle. He moved me up to a BB gun pistol. I eventually advanced to a shotgun. It was actually fun because it was more of a mental challenge than a physical one. I had to concentrate on my target and focus on reaching it. It suited my skillset and interests perfectly. It got to the point where I never missed. I could even make my targets blindfolded. My father got a kick out of that one. He liked to show his friends my little circus act on his drunken boys-night-in on Friday nights. He instructed me that using a gun was about following instincts, but I only ever used math and science to do it. I had no instinct or feeling to follow then or now. I was a prodigy with a gun and my father couldn't have been prouder. My mother was not pleased with that, but she never complained about it, of course. I guess she knew somehow that someone in our situation…someone like me, if I had a gun in one hand, I didn't stand a chance of making it through life without blood on the other hand."

"Jackson," Lisa gasped. She was compelled to say something more, but she was rendered mute.

"Shh, or you'll miss the best part," he warned her with cold humor. "Baseball season came around and my father figured that since I was good at shooting, I would be good at baseball because I had apparently manned-up and could handle masculine stuff like sports. One Saturday, I had a game. I hadn't actually made the team, but I had a uniform and I attended anyway as a back-up because everyone's a winner and no one has to ever hear the word 'no' at these confidence-building activities. But, as chance would have it, I ended up having to go to bat that day. Let's just say that ended with the ball going past me while the bat flew halfway to third base. My father was pissed." Jackson stopped again and Lisa could feel his body growing tense. His arms constricted ever so slightly around her. He buried his face into her neck for a moment, a lipless kiss of sorts, before he returned to his previous posture and continued speaking.

"On Sunday after church, my father told me to go outside and wait for him, that we were going to practice until I got it right. I went outside through the front door and I heard screaming a few seconds later. I think I knew what was happening without seeing it, so I went back into the house through the backdoor and I ran down the hall to my parents' room. I got my father's handgun out of the drawer next to his bed. In the living room, my mother was lying on the sofa covered in blood. The expression frozen on her corpse was contentment, like she was pleased that my father had given her what she deserved. She didn't even look like she had attempted to fight him or defend herself," he noted with revulsion. The images he painted for her with his words were as fresh in his mind as if they had happened just yesterday.

"My father, meanwhile, had just come in from the kitchen and was still wiping his hands on the dishtowel. He then started to clean the blood off the bat, so casually, like he did it every day. No big deal. He realized I was there and when he turned around, I pulled the trigger once. Then again. And again until the little revolver was empty. I was eight-years-old. Most second graders are learning how to write in cursive and are looking forward to being in the third grade, but I had to become a man and I never again looked back on my abbreviated childhood and wondered why it had been cut short. I'm glad it was short because my mother earned freedom and I found my identity. If my father had lived, I think he would have been proud of me. I'm a man of his standards." Lisa was still crying. She pulled Jackson's hand up to her lips and kissed his knuckles. She held his hand to her wet cheek. He tightened his embrace just a little.

"The police from damn near every agency showed up. They took me away, but I didn't leave the house until I had one last look at my mother's face. That weak, spineless, emotional way she went through life, it was something I swore that I would never tolerate and I knew I wanted nothing to do with it. She was everything that makes a woman weak and it disgusted me. Men can be monsters, but at least you have to respect them for having the drive to survive. Women don't have that, at least for the most part. You were the first woman I ever met who had more than a little fight in her." Lisa appreciated the compliment, but she mentally filed it for a later time so she could enjoy it properly.

Jackson stopped talking now that his story was complete and the air in the room seemed sour, tainted by the horrors that he had disclosed. She had told him he was pathetic. She had called him a freak. She had considered him to be inhuman and obsessive, robotic and psychotic. That man was perhaps the most human of all because he knew what it was like to be the boot as well as to be under the boot, to choke someone with the belt as well as to be whipped by the belt. He could only inflict that which he had acquired out of necessity and it explained why his emotions were unplugged from his occupational functions. He had learned long ago the value of removing the human condition from the body so that the body could survive. Emotions were gangrenous.

"You know," Jackson began, his voice oddly both sorrowful and jovial, "the most pathetic part about all of this is that my mother's side thought she was a slut and she would burn in hell. If only they had met me, they would have seen an eight-year-old who managed to put X's next to two major sins in a single instant: Thou Shall Not Kill and Thou Shall Honor Thy Father. I think we can even put an X next to Keep Holy the Sabbath since murder is probably just an itty bit worse on Sunday. Go big or go home, right?" he grimly joked. She squeezed his hand again. She figured it would be inappropriate to jokingly contribute that he had also broken Thou Shall Not Steal when he stole her as promised.

Lisa could never see him in the same way again, not ever. She did not feel sympathy for him because it would be an insult that would devalue and degrade everything he had overcome. He was not a victim and he would not permit her to consider him as such. No, he was not a monster that she pitied. No. He was the man she knew. The shame, the ever-elusive torment that shadowed his every waking moment, the shame that she understood but could never define for his particular situation was now clear: he was ashamed of what he had allowed himself to become in his desperate attempt to avoid being a victim of his father's insanity and violence. He had paid the price of freedom by losing his mother's life, his innocence, his potential, and his soul, all in one round of bullets. Lisa's shame had originated with her rape, but it had turned into shame over her own personal self-loathing and disappointment, her inability to be anything other than a lost girl who could only look out the window and wish for companionship. Her shame had been simple. His shame was much greater. Nevertheless, they understood each other and no one else could.

"Say something, Lisa," he pleaded, his voice small and exposed.

"I thought you were a lousy shot?" she exhaled between tears, adding an uncomfortable chuckle to it.

Jackson huffed a short laugh of mutual awkwardness and sniffed. She assumed that he must have been crying, but she didn't move to confirm that. She didn't feel any drops fall down upon her cheek or neck, so his tears must have remained imprisoned with the rest of the dark secrets he concealed in Pandora's Box. The thing about Pandora's Box, though, was that when it was opened and all the horrors of the world had escaped, only one thing remained: hope.

"I _am_ a lousy shot," he exclaimed with a chuckle. "When the media reported the incident, it was about a husband and a housewife killed in a car accident. The Company found out about the lunatic eight-year-old who went berserk and killed his father, so they sent someone to check on me and keep things _handled_."

"Samuel?"

"Samuel," he confirmed. "He was a bright up and coming kid at the Company and they were giving him the easy jobs. He was to verify the report that I was a prodigy. When he gave me a shooting test, I couldn't land a single shot. The entire paper target at the range was completely intact when I was done. He told the Company that the reports were exaggerated and that I didn't have what they wanted."

"Obviously you did," she supplied.

"I did. I always suspected that the foster care system I was in was actually a Company system because they left me alone and I had a decent life until I went off on my own. They gave me what I needed and left me to my own devices, exactly as I wanted it to be. When I was eighteen and had just graduated from high school, the Company approached me and conducted an interview. I was emotionally separated from my identity, I had no ties, I acted on logic and fact rather than reacting on feelings and instincts. And I could use a knife in ways most people only have nightmares about."

Lisa felt cold as Jackson told her his employment qualifications. It wasn't anything new to her, but it was definitely a rehash of previously acquired knowledge that she could do without hearing or thinking about again.

"I still couldn't shoot worth a shit and I still can't today," he laughed. "Maybe the old bastard was right, that shooting took instinct and intuition, not math and calculations," he briefly considered. "The Company came up with a theory that I could shoot, but I had somehow amputated that ability when I cut off my soul." It was a cruel turn of phrase, Lisa thought, as her mind echoed the claim repeatedly. "Regardless, I was a prodigy in many ways. Long story short, I went to college while simultaneously studying at the Company. I shot up the ranks and quickly joined Samuel and many others as a top-level Manager. I was one of the youngest people to ever earn the rank of Manager…maybe even _the_ youngest. We were the ones entrusted with the big jobs, the international work that ranged in the multi-millions."

"That's…nice," Lisa hesitantly complimented, not really knowing what she could say in response to any of that.

Jackson grinned to himself. "Thanks," he politely responded to her dilemma, and the fact that she could hear the smile in his words made her feel better.

"So you really don't hate women?" she deduced, bringing the conversation to a new place.

"No." She had theorized some time ago that Jackson was secretly aware of the need for equality and balance, but his arguments and contempt always seemed to contradict that. "I have no respect for feminine weakness and whininess. I don't care about all of those emotional problems that women concoct and then battle. I don't want to hear about a woman's hormones or mood swings as an excuse."

He wanted to see a woman who was strong, unlike how he viewed his mother. He saw his mother as a fragile, reluctant pushover who let her husband control her. While that may be true, Lisa could only see the female side of the equation. His mother had to keep the peace in order to attempt the semblance of normalcy in their household. She nurtured Jackson, supported him, and danced with him. She let him be himself, even if that person wasn't the macho man his father demanded. She tried to give him a typical American boy childhood at the cost of her own life. The pity that Lisa felt wasn't to be wasted on Jackson. It was to be directed where it was valued: his mother. She had earned Lisa's sympathy for being the unspoken hero who would never receive credit for every punch she had to endure. She may have been too stupid to fight back or realize that she had a bad deal—that was impossible for Lisa to determine—but she had been smart enough to love her son unconditionally and never falter in that love. That love was the momentary hesitation Lisa had seen in Jackson's eyes when he spotted the brutal scar across her chest. That love was the attentiveness in which he listened to her recount her rape. That love was the compulsion he had to confess that he would never sexually assault her. That love was the man who had no clue what to do with a grieving woman and now was protectively wrapped around her in bed, trusting her as he relinquished his deepest secrets into her hands.

"I want to see a woman who respects herself enough to do the job and do it well," he concluded.

"So act like a lady, but think like a man?"

"Not so chauvinistic," he responded. "More like, think like a man, act like a man, be a lady."

"That's not chauvinistic at all," she retorted. "You're still a pig."

"You're still an annoying question-asking nag of a woman."

"Thank you, Jackson," she said somberly.

"For calling you a nag? Anytime."

"No, I mean…"

"I know."

She said it anyway. "Thank you for sharing that with me."

"Thank you for listening…and for not pitying me" he added timidly.

A heavy silence filled the room. "I could never pity you." He could hear the "but," the unsaid words that protested at the threshold of her lips, begging to be freed.

Lisa closed her eyes and pushed herself toward sleep, intentionally avoiding what she wanted to say. The undeclared words remained unspoken aloud, but they sounded out through the empty hallways of her mind as sleep grew larger and began to engulf her: _I could never pity you…but I could love you._

Jackson stretched just a little so his lips could connect with her wet cheek in the softest of chaste kisses. If she could hear his thoughts, she would have heard something not unlike her own: _Of course you don't pity me…and that's why I love you._

* * *

Lisa woke up several hours later, but she didn't move. She was entangled in Jackson's relentless grip, but she was grateful for it because it made her feel safe. Six years ago, or even seven months ago, the idea of being safe in Jackson's arms would have turned her stomach upside down. Now, it seemed unnatural for it to be any other way.

He had mentioned at the start of his story that his father's name was Ritter…that his family name was Ritter. Rippner was clearly a tribute to his ultimate creator, the lesser god who damned him for all eternity. For some reason, Lisa was just a little surprised that most of Jackson's aliases—not all, but most—were variations on R names when it made logical sense that he would want to avoid that connection. Little Jack Ritter had killed his father in an understandable moment of vengeance and had become Jackson Rippner, the cold Manager with ice for eyes.

There was a question that had hovered over her mind for months since she learned that Jackson had killed his father. It was a silly, childish question, but the answer would impact how she connected with him on the most fundamental level. "Jackson?" she whispered.

"Hmm?" he groaned from his place of rare tranquility, the zone between the escape of the unconscious world and the harshness of the conscious world.

"Whose eyes do you have?" she dared to ask, her voice never louder than a light breeze outside the window.

"Mmm mother's," he automatically replied in a rather garbled mumble, not awake enough to protest this line of questioning or to come up with a snide retort while avoiding the topic.

Lisa closed her eyes and began to dream for the day that she could stop imagining Bill Ritter in command of Jackson's blue eyes and start seeing Margaret Dillon warmly looking out at her.

* * *

Lisa awoke bright and early Saturday morning, feeling as if she had experienced the best night's sleep in weeks, which was odd considering how few hours she had actually rested. That sliver of time apparently had been enough. The pain of her mother's death still resounded throughout her being, but after hearing Jackson's tale of woe, Lisa flipped the proverbial switch and rationalized a remedy: she would not miss her mother, but instead would celebrate that she had one present for this long in her life. Grieving was over. Healing could at last begin.

Jackson was still coiled around her, a harmless hibernating snake in this state, but she didn't know what she was in for if she disturbed him. He had shared everything with her only a short time ago and he had to recognize that the revelation would alter their relationship forever. Lisa was unsure of the man lying next to her, if he would awaken with resentment and regret in his heart, or if he would join her in viewing the world in Technicolor after the tornado had carried them from Kansas to Oz.

Since moving into the house, Lisa and Jackson had shared household chores and responsibilities. Saturdays were their outside maintenance days while Sundays were their inside cleaning days. Because it was the middle of winter, lawn mowing had become a thing of the past (much to Jackson's immense satisfaction), and occasionally scraping and salting the sidewalks had become a thing of the present (much to Jackson's immense disappointment). Lisa, however, usually occupied herself with the garden in the climate-controlled year-round greenhouse that Frank and Jackson had built for her.

Lisa barely moved so that she might loosen her way out of Jackson's arms, but that feather-light motion was enough. "Morning already?" he inquired groggily.

"Yeah."

He pulled his arms off of her, and rubbed his face and eyes roughly. He was a sad little creature on his lazy mornings, and lazy mornings had been few and far between for them. He had savored a couple when they were on the road, so Lisa knew how to turn on her "poor you" voice just enough to annoy him. She opted for giving him a free pass on the mockery this time.

He let himself detach from her and fall flat onto his back on her side of the bed. She rolled over and only then appreciated how much her side ached from being completely stationary for so long. It was a pleasant ache when she compared its worth to the value of the information he had chosen to share with her. She turned around so that she was now on her right side, the front of her body squished against his side. Her head was on her pillow, but a sudden burst of bravery empowered her and she allowed her head to rest on his shoulder. She chased out the individual wrinkles on his navy blue t-shirt with her fingers and smoothed the material to fit his defined chest.

"Everything has changed," he proclaimed as if he were an outside commentator on their lives.

Their mothers were dead. They were partially to blame. They were now intertwined in a way beyond their wildest speculation, a connection that Lisa could have never assumed she would share with the guy in line behind her at the airport. "Things have been changing for months," she brushed it off. "The only difference is that I don't have to use assumptions anymore. I know who you are now."

"You only know what I told you."

"I know what I know firsthand, and now I know what you consider to be the origin story of your Super Villain existence. I think I'm doing alright in the 'Who is Jackson?' department."

He snatched her hand into his own with the speed of an uncoiled snake awakened from its long slumber. He brought it to his lips and kissed it before returning it to his chest. He gazed down at her, his dark lashes concealing his blue eyes and making them appear black. "And you're still here."

"You know just as much bad stuff about me. And _you're _still here."

* * *

Their Saturday finally began. Jackson shoveled the sidewalk, cursing under his breath about hating snow with every shovelful he moved. He was grateful that it hadn't snowed any more than what Frank called "just a little bit" because "we don't get much around here." If this was "just a little bit," Jackson dreaded what a lot would look like. As he worked, sprinkles of white fell from the sky in fine, barely visible particles that were felt more than seen. He would certainly see it the next time he cleaned up outside.

In the greenhouse, Lisa pushed up the sleeves of her thick turtleneck sweater so she could trim her little pink roses without damaging them. Anna had been persistent in the necessity of a greenhouse that offered year-round produce. Lisa ended up being startled out of bed one Saturday by the sound of sawing, drilling, and hammering in the backyard. A week later, Anna was giving her specific instructions on how to keep the roses in bloom, how to make sure the tomatoes were large and not too soft, and how to pick the cucumbers at just the right time. They had set up a fairly decent supply of almost every herb and vegetable they knew of and some they hadn't even known existed. The fruit was in low supply because Anna assured her that she wasn't ready for the big leagues just yet.

The greenhouse door opened and Jackson rushed in. "Feels good in here," he commented as Lisa tipped over just the right amount of water from her watering pot onto her thirsty roses. "Everything's looking good." He gently pushed aside some bright green leaves so he could see the ripeness of one of the tomatoes. He wasn't particularly fond of tomatoes, but even he had to admit that it looked rather appetizing. "The peppers?"

Lisa smiled broadly, especially pleased with herself. "They're coming along nicely," she bragged. "I can't wait for the bell peppers."

"Good. Oh, I have a surprise for you!"

"Hmm?" she asked, not looking away from her work. He sneaked up behind her and slid his freezing cold hands under the back of her sweater, warming them on the angular shape of her lower waist. She squealed and started jerking around, but he held her in place.

"You asshole!" she screamed, unable to keep from giggling despite absolutely hating him for putting his cold hands on her.

He laughed and removed his hands, holding them up in surrender. She wheeled around and slapped at his chest and arms. "You." Slap. "Are." Slap. "A." Slap. "Total." Slap. "Ass!" Slap, slap, slap.

The more she hit him, the more manically he laughed. It felt good to have freedom for the first time in his life. There was no one there to tell him how wrong he was or to be disappointed in him for not being good enough. There was no one there to tell him to be worse, to measure up to the cold-bloodedness required for his occupation. There was no one there to resent him as an outsider, an unwelcomed predator that most people could sense in their presence. There was just the two of them, Jackson and Lisa, mistakes of nature who had found one another once to bad results, twice to better results, and thrice to honest results. They were real people and no longer just fictional characters that they had devised for their own outward appearances and survival.

* * *

Jackson was already hard at work on the computer when Lisa came inside. She heard the washing machine running in the background and laundry was part of their Sunday routine—and this was Saturday. Jackson never broke his routine.

"You might want to see this," he said, summoning her to the dining room table. He vacated his chair and gestured for her to take it. He reached around her and clicked play on the video. She watched the screen as he prepared hot chocolate in the kitchen.

"Oh my god," she gasped. He barely heard her over the boiling milk. He filled both mugs, adding marshmallows in abundance to Lisa's mug and sparsely to his own. "Victor's dead," she summed-up when Jackson set her cup down in front of her. She picked it up by the handle and downed a burning sip. "Is it real or did the Company do it?"

Jackson exhaled. He pulled the other chair close to hers and sat down. He placed his mug on the table away from the computer. "Your mother was killed by the Company," he confirmed for her. "And Victor was the Manager who did it."

Lisa grew pale and felt flashes of hot and cold rush through her body as the shock reverberated in her nerves. "Victor killed…" was all she could manage. The theories were one thing, but hearing it now as a fact from the expert, that was something else entirely.

"I think that Victor actually cared for your mother," Jackson hypothesized. Lisa gave him a wide-eyed look of disbelief. "Hear me out," he requested with his palm flat out as a sign of neutrality. "You know I don't sentimentalize things, but I really think he cared for her. He was most likely forced into finishing the job and when it was done, he killed himself, I dare say out of guilt."

"The Company wouldn't have ordered him to kill himself? Wouldn't they have killed him before he had the chance to even consider it?"

"No—too much attention. They would have called him back in and prepared him for his next job, whenever that may be. He obviously didn't go back in and he opted for taking the noble way out." Lisa could swear that she heard respect in Jackson's voice as he looked to the picture of Victor with the article entitled "Man Commits Suicide After Girlfriend's Death in Car Accident."

"What does this mean? For us?"

"It means the Company isn't likely to invest too many more Managers on the Reisert family," Jackson surmised confidently. "I was one of the top and I'm now—how shall I put it—on _inactive_ _duty_ for the foreseeable future. Victor must have been good too if they put him in for a long-term assignment, but that obviously didn't go over very well. And of course there's Samuel," Jackson began, but trailed off without further comment. He settled for offering an analogy instead. "We've ticked off enough customer service representatives at the call center that we're now going to get a district supervisor on the line to deal with our problem directly."

Lisa sucked in a sharp breath. "I don't think I like the sound of that."

"I _know_ I don't like the sound of that." He took a swig of hot chocolate as if it were straight vodka.

* * *

When Monday night came, Lisa retreated to her bedroom and shut the door. She wanted Jackson with her, but she was not going to beg him to join her like a needy, emotional woman because he would surely scorn and ridicule her for such weakness. Instead, she took a long bath in plain hot water while wishing she had scented oils or bubbles to help her relax. When she stepped out of the bath, her long hair caught her attention.

Jackson had told her long hair was either a fashion statement or an embodiment of one's issues, the angst-filled burden one chose to wear in a physical incarnation. It was time for a transformation. She was ready to move on. Her life had changed. Her family had changed. Her friends had changed. Her perspective of herself as well as Jackson had changed. It was time for her to remove the weight she had accumulated over six years and go forward.

She toweled off and put on her flannel pajama bottoms and the white tank top she wore underneath her matching button-up flannel top. She would put on the flannel top later. She pulled out the scissors from her bathroom drawer and set them on the countertop as she combed through her still wet hair. She had changed so much that she seriously considered looking in the mirror to meet this new person, to see who had replaced the Lisa of old that everyone consistently kept down in the mud.

It was time. She had to look in the mirror.

Lisa slowly looked upward and commenced analyzing the reflection, starting at the bottom. Her waist was the first part she could see in the mirror over the counter and it was slender, but it lacked the curves of her former self. She could see the faint outline of her ribs protruding from her white tank. Her breasts, once plump and perky, were now hollow and shrunken, as if they had realized the odds of being used for the purpose of fun or food had dwindled drastically. The strangely shaped bones and cartilage that composed the rest of her upper chest above her shirt were far more evident than she had ever recalled seeing before. The last time she had looked into a mirror, that area had been covered with smooth, thick skin that made her look solid and healthy. Her shoulders were caved in and her arms were nothing but several mounds of muscle mass attached to bone with skin draped over them like a dress a size too big. Her neck was tight and a little too taunt, and this did nothing but draw more negative attention to her anemic, pale, bony body. Her jaw was long and angular; the baby fat of her twenties was now completely gone. Her face didn't have any wrinkles or crevices, but where there should have been texture and plumpness, there was more skin hanging on to bone for dear life. Her eyes, once not unlike Disney Princess eyes, were now bugged-out due to a lack of fat and natural collagen around her eyes. The dark purple circles that surrounded her red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes made her look like she had been beaten daily by her cocaine dealer.

She didn't look old, but she definitely looked mature and worn.

Her eyes made her gulp in horror. She saw their color and couldn't identify it, nor could she remember what color they had been before she had cut off communication with her body. Had they been green? Brown? Hazel? Blue? She wasn't even sure what hue they were now. It was as if the shade evaded her, changing right before her intense scrutiny as if to keep her guessing. Panic overwhelmed her and she clutched at the counter as she gasped for air. She made direct eye contact with herself and years of silence on both their parts left them with plenty to say to each other.

Her body was angry that it had been mistreated by her rapist and then by herself. It had done nothing to deserve her skipping meals and working out more than was healthy. She had not been touched in years by affectionate people. Sincere or not, people needed that human touch. Even babies required contact for their first few months in order for their bodies to form correctly or else they would bruise from a lack of touching. Her eyes chastised her for her insolence, for being such a monster on the inside that it had no choice but to personify itself outwardly like a demon altering the appearance of the possessed.

Those same eyes that glared at her relentlessly were bitter and utterly livid at her for not doing everything she should be doing in a regularly scheduled way. There had been little genuine laughter, the kind of laughter that would bring a person to tears and cleanse the soul of negativity. There had been no touching. There had been no special treatment, no special spa days or relaxing moments here and there. There had been no sex, no arousal to put a skip in her heart and an adrenaline rush of hormones and endorphins in her system.

Her body was ashamed of her, her eyes asserted, because she had disrespected it in every way she could think of doing. She made her form pay the ultimate price for her love of darkness. A body left in darkness would go blind. A body left in silence would go deaf. A body left untouched would decay and blow away on the first light wind to swoop through the area.

Lisa clutched a handful of hair and sawed through the wide clump with the scissors.

"What the hell—" Jackson quickly evaluated the scene before him. In rapid reaction time, he wrestled the scissors from her and jerked her out of the bathroom by the arm. In her bedroom, he shoved her down on the bed and put the scissors on the dresser behind him. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

"I'm cutting my hair."

"You looked like…" Jackson struggled for words and he was never one to do so. "You looked like you were a million miles away. You don't need to be playing with sharp objects right now, Leese," he condescendingly explained. Lisa ignored the patronizing tone and accepted that he was right. She had freaked out at seeing and being berated by her old friend in the mirror, and in her panic, she had started hacking at her hair. Oddly enough, the knee-jerk reaction to cut her hair had been exactly what her mirror self was irate about her doing.

"I looked in the mirror," she softly told him. Jackson closed the space between them and he knelt down on the floor in front of where she sat on the edge of the bed. "I saw her. She scared me," she whispered, hot tears burning in her sensitive eyes.

"What did you see?" he questioned, wondering what she could have seen after six years of avoidance.

"I saw how ugly I am inside, but it made its way outside." Lisa sniffed and sobbed, and then the dam broke. Jackson reached up to hug her just as she let herself fall into his arms.

He wasn't going to comfort her. That was not his area of expertise at all. He just rubbed her back and let her cry it out. A few minutes later, she regained her composure and sat up straight again. Jackson toyed with the hair she had chopped off from the rest of the long mass of golden brunette. "Let's fix that," he said as he stood and retrieved her scissors.

He crawled onto the bed behind her and put his legs on either side of her. She was acutely aware of his manhood as it pressed against her, more firm and attuned to her than it had been for all the weeks they had shared a bed on the road. He ran his fingers through her hair, smoothing it out the best he could. He made a straight cut a little above her shoulders so that her hair's baseline across the bottom would be more or less equal with the section she had already cut. He then took it in sections, pulling it together and flattening it out with his fingers to the point of perfection, and then trimming it for evenness. Lisa felt transfixed by his nurturing way, a conversion that was out of character but not disagreeable. She had been cutting his hair for months and he had always seemed to enjoy it (though he would never admit such a thing). Now, as he returned the favor, she believed he was trying to help her feel the same relaxation he felt when she combed her fingers through his hair.

When he was done, her hair was barely to her shoulders when wet and straight. He put the towel around her head and gently moved it, careful not to rub too hard. He finally finished and it took her a few seconds of delayed reaction time to notice he had completed his latest job. She opened her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to figure out what she could possibly say to the man who was now to the point of surprising her on a daily basis. His fingers trailed through her hair, twirling and playing with the locks. He quickly grew bored and moved to the back of her neck. Jackson kneaded the muscles there for a few seconds before his hands came to rest completely upon her shoulders, massaging the tension she carried there like Atlas's world. As he worked to loosen the tight muscles, he made sure he pushed the spaghetti straps of her tank top off her shoulders, dropping them limply alongside her upper arms.

Jackson wasn't sure what had taken control of his body, but it indubitably wasn't his fact based logic. The male driven part, well, that was absolutely true. After seeing her with scissors while a vacant stare emanated from her, Jackson knew he couldn't leave her alone. Helping repair her hair disaster was an act of kindness to repay all the times she had cut his hair (not that he didn't enjoy the act as much as the result, if not more so). Running his hands through her hair once he was finished was a friendly gesture. Massaging her neck was a harmless demonstration of camaraderie.

However, molesting the tender flesh that was out of her sight with his vile mouth was an inexcusable act of aggression and horror. The more he commanded himself to release her, to return to his beastly cage and not distress his captive Beauty, the more he refused to surrender the prey he had captured. Sensations that he had avoided, stirrings he had not experienced in years, absconded from his mind and memory, and took charge of his body after locking his precious logic in a coffin.

Her lips parted to speak and a moan came out when she felt the impact of his large open kisses on the back of her neck. It was an unexpected shock, but it was not entirely unwelcomed. He could feel her shiver and when she didn't protest, he took it as an invitation to continue, and monsters such as Jackson required an invitation.

He tossed the scissors and the towel holding the remains of her hair to the floor before he caressed her bare shoulders. His tongue licked just under her ear, making her cringe and giggle in a way she had forgotten she could. His hands danced over her arms, silently instructing them to lift and move about gracefully as to permit him access to all sides and angles. He even traced imaginary lines on her hands, his fingers travelling through her spread-open fingers. His mouth moved down to her right shoulder and then to her arm, where he pecked chaste kisses at random intervals.

Perhaps it was seduction. Perhaps it was worship. For Jackson, the line between the two was almost imaginary.

"I don't know who you saw in the mirror," he began as he abandoned her arms and slipped his hands under the front of her tank top. She flinched at the sudden contact and clutched at her shirt, holding his hands on her stomach through the fabric so he could venture no farther in either direction. "But whoever you saw is nothing compared to the woman I've seen in my memory and in my house all this time."

She turned her head over her shoulder to see his expression, and a creature possessed by lust and blinded by—dare she assume—_love_ met her gaze. She could feel his member growing more dominant behind her and she was having trouble catching her breath as she acknowledged the repercussions of this, all of this, and everything leading up to this. Jackson was not a sexually charged man. His logic ruled everything. If he had wanted sex, he could have gotten it in any number of rational, cerebral ways that didn't involve her. Yet here he was. He wanted her and there was no logical reason in the world to explain it. She couldn't see it, not even after all these years.

"Say the word and this ends immediately," he assured her. He was not willing to stop, but he knew he would stop without hesitation, visible disappointment, or guilt if Lisa said the word. He would free his captive logic, lead a rebellion in opposition to the immorality that occupied his shell of a body, and cease his soiling of the innocent before him.

Lisa's head was directed toward him over her shoulder, but her eyes had closed as she internally scanned her body in search of the knowledge for how to be with another human being. Jackson's body had risen to the occasion…in more ways than one. But with her body, she wasn't even sure if there was a sex drive still in her somewhere. She felt like she was a virgin all over again and in many ways, she was.

Lisa opened her heavy eyelids and peered into the blue orbs that were so close to her own colorless, identity-less eyes that were foreign to her. The cold and calculating eyes that had made her afraid in the episode of violence on an airplane now felt as hot as white flame in the heat of this tension. "I trust you," she breathed.

"Don't trust me," he once more pleaded with her. "Just know that I will never hurt you. That's all I want from you." Lisa released her hold on his hands, the blockade that prevented him from exploring her chest now eliminated. Instead of feeling his way through the situation, he opted for directing her to her feet to stand with him. "Lead the way," he commanded, giving her total control of an affair that would most likely feel overwhelming to her. He did not like being a subordinate. He enjoyed the freedom and power of being in charge of a job, but this was not a job. This was…a company retreat, perhaps. He could reconcile his feelings of helplessness by reminding himself that Lisa would surely act in both their best interests.

Lisa was reluctant to take charge because she was afraid to do so and having the burden of responsibility for their first union was too much on her. She had too many sexual demons haunting her at this very moment for her to take action, any action, without shaking in fear and anxiety. "We're partners," she reminded him. "We work together."

Jackson pulled his white t-shirt over his head and tossed it to the side. Lisa's hands immediately went to his chest, her fingers tracing over the eclectic scars that decorated his torso. Had she seen him six years ago in this state, she would have seen a skinny guy whose body was too weak to carry the weight of a muscle. His chest was just as pale then as it was now, but now he had dozens of scars that told the story of his prison ordeal and his fight for life amid the Company's endeavors to erase him from existence.

The scar that caught her attention was not any number of bullet holes that she and her father put into him. It wasn't any of the jagged prison scars. It was the scar on his throat, the lightly colored mark with the texture of tissue paper. She had seen little of it during their time together because it was usually invisible in certain lighting or his collar had obstructed it. Now, she sought it out, her finger outlining it as she looked upon it with possessive pride. Jackson confiscated her hands from his chest and throat and put them at the waistband of his black sweatpants. She gave the band a slight tug, a ceremonial breaking of a champagne bottle on a ship, but she let him remove his pants and boxers with her approval. She thought she would be able to look, to take in his full appearance, but she kept her eyes locked on his, unable to return to the world of healthy sexuality just yet.

She was scared. No, she was _terrified_.

Jackson cupped her cheeks in his hands, his thumbs padding across the pink color that was slowly illuminating her face. "It's okay," he promised her softly in acceptance of her jitters and avoidance. She was grateful that he wasn't offended by her lack of participation, but he seemed to genuinely comprehend the situation and was willing to be patient with her. He flipped on the lamp next to her bedside before he turned off the room's bright main light. She didn't watch him as he did so. She merely stood motionless, her arms by her sides as she tried not to shake or cry.

She wanted this, she _truly_ did, but the closer they got to The Moment, the more terror gripped her heart and squeezed. She was suffocating and the walls of this glorified box of a bedroom were caving in on her.

Jackson came up behind her and planted kisses on her neck, brushing her short hair out of his way. His free hand navigated downward and sneaked into her pants, safely rubbing over her hip bone and her lower abdomen. All of his ministrations were cautious, careful not to touch in any way that would be considered alarming. It was all about taking baby steps, not just for Lisa, but for himself as well. Lisa turned, the twist putting herself more into his arms than when he had been behind her. She rid herself of her pants and inconspicuously slipped off her panties, stepping out of them in an innocent way. Jackson took hold of the bottom of her tank and was about to pull it up over her head when she stopped him. "We can stop," he reminded her instantly.

"This stays on," she ordered, her voice hard and leaving no room for misinterpretation. To further cement her point, she crossed her arms over her torso, blocking any attempts to take her shirt off. The straps of the tank top dangled wantonly down her arms.

He wasn't going to let Lisa continue down this path of unhealthy self-destruction and evasion. He roughly jerked her arms apart, startling a yelp from her, and peeled the sleeveless garment over her head in a flash. Her hand immediately went up to cover the scar on her breast. Tears threatened to fall, but she wasn't going to humiliate herself like that, not again. All she had done as of late was cry.

He pulled her hand away from the scar. "This," he said, touching the scar for himself. He stroked his finger up and down its uneven length, feeling the hard texture over such a soft area of her form. "He's gone. This isn't his, so stop letting him have it." His chauvinistic dominance didn't shock her, but the protective slant on his control of her somehow made her feel secure. Her eyes were closed and tears silently escaped through her lashes. He gently tilted her chin up. "Look at me, Leese." She obeyed and if he had a heart to break, it would have crumbled into a million pieces at the secrets her eyes shared with him in a single instant. "I see nothing in you that isn't pure perfection. That scar was your power six years ago. Make it your power now. Don't let him win. This is my moment…now let me steal you."

Lisa inched back onto the bed. Jackson eased onto the bed with her, his arms supporting him as he straddled her. He continued his mission to touch every part of her with his mouth, but he could feel her panicking. All she could see was a strange form shadowing over her in broad daylight as her backside burned on the pavement, her body was violently torn, and her will was threatened into submission. Jackson was here with her, in their house, and this was _now_, not _then_. Her brain yelled that repeatedly, yet her nerve center couldn't hear it. It was all about fight or flight.

He backed off and let himself fall onto the bed next to her. "I'm sorry," she said. "Jackson, I'm so sorry. I'm trying, I just—"

He leaned over and put his index finger over her lips to silence her. "No. We're not doing this, not until you're ready. If you're never ready, then we just _won't_."

"I want to—"

"This is just like my story," he reiterated, trying a new tactic for explanation. "You wanted it and wanted it, but you couldn't handle it until you were ready. You're not ready for this, Leese. Don't suffer because you think I want this or that you should be doing it. Don't, just don't."

"Jackson, I'm—"

"Don't apologize," he insisted. "I more than understand everything that's going on in your head right now. That's something I can understand, remember?" He was right. Facts, history, logic, reality were all things he specialized in interpreting, but emotions were incomprehensible. What was happening now, Lisa's fear, was all determined by simple facts. Lisa's desire was to be with him, but when he was there, memories that he was not responsible for rushed at her and left her stunned. On that same note, memories that he was in fact responsible for would return and remind her of why he continually insisted that she not trust him. What she needed was a partner, an equal who understood and could guide her—not lead her or make her lead him.

Lisa sat up straight in bed and looked down at Jackson's stretched out form as he lay naked atop her bed covers. He observed her, unmoving and calm, as to not startle her in her brittle state. She saw him, all of him, and she realized that this was the man she trusted her life with on a daily basis and he was not the savage who had violated her for no reason at all.

Lisa tugged at Jackson's arm, forcing him to sit up with her. "I want you as my partner," she declared. "My partner can't be on top and I can't be on top of my partner because we're equal." The thought of a man, even Jackson, being on top of her as she gave herself away horrified her. She could not do it.

Jackson nodded slowly, waiting for her to reach her point. She slid herself a few inches closer to him and climbed into his lap. He smiled proudly at her, amazed by how she had overcome yet another obstacle that had presented itself as a barrier between herself and normalcy. He arranged his legs so she could be more comfortable and she wrapped her legs around his waist, the stage set for the final performance.

That revelation was all they needed to start the next phase of their relationship. Sitting together, wrapped in one another's supportive arms, they released the tension that had been building beneath the surface. They weren't able to make love for many reasons, but they had sex and it was not raw or crude. It wasn't violent or aggressive. It was gentle and fluid as they rode the waves of feeling, both experiencing something they hadn't felt in ages and it had nothing to do with the sensations of sex. They felt something, period. They felt emotions. They felt the needs of the other before their own. They fled a universe that had no place for them and they created their own new kingdom, a realm within the world of their house. They were attentive and thorough, considerate of one another's idiosyncrasies while accommodating emotional and mental requirements that they were aware of but did not vocalize at that moment. They made sure both found pleasure amid all the pain they felt on a daily basis.

The sex was more than just fun or cold comfort: it was fulfillment. They had satisfied a level of necessity that they never knew they had until they accepted the inevitability of their union as partners in every way. It was a moment six years in the making and for both of them, it was the only moment where everything was right for once.

Their sex may have been unconventional, maybe even weird, but that was their relationship specialty. They weren't normal, and nobody did _not normal_ better than Lisa and Jackson.

* * *

Lisa awoke to find herself not on her pillow, but on a scarred bare chest. She turned her head to look up at him, not bothering to remove herself from her human pillow. She smiled sleepily, contentedly. He returned the smile. This Jackson was completely harmless with his droopy morning eyes and his relaxed, stubble-covered jaw. He was so far from the Manager he had been that Lisa wasn't sure if he could ever again flip the switch and return to his evil ways, but he had always been one to rise to any challenge.

"I guess I don't have to get you a card now," he mused. Lisa squinted her eyes as she attempted to decipher that bizarre code. "Happy Valentine's Day, honey," he picked on her.

When Lisa recognized the date, she groaned and buried her face in his chest. His abdominal muscles tensed as the slight movement tickled him. Lisa faced him once more, a pretty blush spreading across her cheeks. Valentine's Day was the last thing on her mind and she couldn't believe that the two least traditional people in the world had inadvertently participated in a traditional holiday.

"We are such a cliché! I can't believe we did that in time for Valentine's. So embarrassing," she mumbled.

"Well, you know how we are. Boy stalks girl, girl meets boy, boy threatens girl and slams her into walls, girl beats and shoots boy, girl and boy have _excellent _sex in their suburban safe house. We're storybook lovers from start to finish." Jackson's fingers played with a crinkled lock of her auburn hair. He was taken aback by how short it was now that it was dry and her natural uneven wavy curl had reappeared. It looked like it barely came below her ears. He was fond of it when it was longer, but he understood why she had to alter it. She was a different person now and so was he.

"You definitely know how to seduce a girl," she contributed to his commentary.

"I wouldn't say that," he seriously answered. "I don't get around much."

"That surprises me and yet it doesn't surprise me." It was his turn to gaze blankly at her in confusion. "I mean, I figured you'd go out and take care of business, so to speak, however you needed to, but you also don't seem like someone who…_has_ business to take care of."

"Thanks for the compliment."

"No! I mean…you just aren't very, I mean, you aren't a typical guy. You actually have thoughts that aren't about sex 24/7." He remained expressionless. "Right?" she added uncertainly, now doubting her conclusion.

He raised his eyebrows and nodded. "I usually have more important things. My previous experiences have been business related and when at all possible, I avoid that. It's a distraction I can't afford."

"How many?" Lisa brazenly questioned.

Jackson gaped at her in amusement and shock. "What?"

She bit her lip teasingly. "C'mon, how many?"

"I can count them on one hand," he vaguely responded. "And you, Sister Lisa?"

Lisa looked dark for a moment, but it quickly passed. "Aside from…" She didn't have to say it. It went without saying. "Two."

"Really? Let me guess: the dumb jock who seduced the naïve cheerleader junior year of high school and the love of your life who left after he got what he came for in the first place? No pun intended, of course."

"I hate it when you do that," she muttered irritably. She traced circles across his chest, connecting scars like she would connect the dots. "You researched that too. Pervert."

Jackson chuckled. "I swear," he stated, holding up his right hand. "I looked up no such thing. I just got lucky. Just like those two guys apparently," he added, earning a smack from Lisa. "_I was right?_" he asked with a cackle, not letting go of this line of questioning.

"More or less," she reluctantly admitted. "It was the dumb jock seducing the naïve cheerleader after senior prom and it was my first, and only, real boyfriend in college. After we broke up, I pretty much dove into my studies and my work and then…then I lost interest in that sort of thing." Again, it went without saying. "Until last night." Lisa scooted up closer to the head of the bed so she could still use Jackson's chest as a pillow, but she could play with his hair as well. It was looking a little shaggy as it hung sloppily in his face. "And you?"

"Nice try."

"I told you mine…"

Jackson shook his head and exhaled. "Four and a half."

Lisa's eyes bugged out at the incredible revelation. "Really? Do I even want to know what the half is?"

"One and two were for 'Company Training,' a professional development seminar, if you will. Three and four were business assignments. The half was the assignment who passed out from the drug I gave her before I had to go further."

"That's…" Lisa searched for the words. "Really disturbing."

"I wake up every morning and ask myself, 'What can I possibly do today to disturb Lisa's fragile sensibilities?'"

"I knew it." Lisa's fingers stopped their inspection of his scars. "Last night…" Jackson's poker face was on, not willing to give her any assumptions one way or another. "Was that a one-time deal?" She hated being on the instigator side of this conversation, but she knew that was the only way it would be addressed.

"Do you want it to be?"

"I asked you first." Now she was starting to think like Jackson.

"I wouldn't object to waking up in this bed for a long time to come." There was no other way he could say it and even that was a struggle to say. It wasn't that the sentiment was hard to vocalize or that the truth was difficult to admit. It was that the vulnerability associated with the truth and the sentiment would give her the power to destroy him if she so desired. He trusted her, but his trust had limits. It wasn't a pretty concept that he couldn't trust another living being, not even the late Samuel, but it was the best he could do.

This was not a fairy tale. His curse could not be broken. He would not transform into her prince. They would not live happily ever after. The best they could do was live and remember that they did.

"I wouldn't object either."

* * *

"And you were how old?"

"Fifteen. Wait, no, sixteen." At Jackson's eyebrow raise, she tried again. "Sixteen, I'm positive."

"And why did the family relocate to Miami from Dallas?"

"Dad's work transferred him to the Miami office."

"And what's the name of his company?"

"Marshall & Associates."

"And what you told me on the plane about when he retired—"

"—was accurate."

"Your mother after the transfer did…?"

"Corporate party planning with…hmm…" Lisa struggled to remember the company that first hired her mother in Miami. She snapped her fingers a few times. "I'm drawing a blank. She didn't stay with them long. Most of her work was in Dallas and after the move, she wasn't up to doing too much. She hated Miami and didn't want to be part of it. She despised the traffic, which is ironic coming from a native Texan."

Jackson scribbled on the wall, now reduced to using a ball-point pen as to fit the new content between the wide ink marks of the permanent markers they had been using until now. He clicked the pen several times, an oddity for someone who was usually so together. "Why did Joe retire when he did?"

Lisa shrugged. "Why not? He and mom were at a boiling point about a year before…my problem," Lisa sighed. "She was a mess. They were falling apart. He couldn't control any of it or make it better. They decided to get a divorce. He became obsessed with making sure I was okay at all times, and as we both know, that got worse after…my attack," she forced out. "After the divorce but before the attack, Mom couldn't get back to Dallas fast enough." Lisa studied Jackson's face for a clue to his thoughts. "What are you thinking?"

"Maybe your dad was accidentally exposed to a Company operation. We had several in Miami around the time of his retirement. Maybe he was scared and decided to drop off the radar?"

"So he's the one who knows something, not me?"

Jackson put his free hand in his pocket and continued to click the pen with his other hand. "Maybe he knows something and you're the only one who can fish it out of him. He's not in a situation where he could be the target of a job very easily. He would be suspicious of outsiders since he's not exactly a social guy, so infiltration would be difficult. If his daughter, however, is brought into the equation, then there's a bargaining chip that would jog his memory."

"Just like on the flight."

"Exactly like on the flight."

* * *

Lisa paid the pharmacy clerk in cash. When she turned around with her small paper bag, Anna was standing behind her. "Anna!" Lisa exclaimed a little too excitedly. She felt like the teenager who was caught sneaking out the window at night.

"Elise, sweetie, how are you?" Anna asked, hugging Lisa without hesitation.

Lisa patted her back gratefully. "I'm fine," she said, pulling out of the hug. "I just needed to sort out some things."

Anna nodded knowingly. "Your hair looks great," she praised, and Lisa wasn't sure if it was a polite acknowledgement of the makeover she had undergone or if it was a sincere compliment. Moments like these were always unpleasant for Lisa.

"Thanks," she shyly replied.

"You look different," Anna noted, observing Lisa carefully.

Lisa put on her best hotel manager's smile and shrugged. "Just the haircut, nothing else," she insisted, hoping this conversation would soon end.

"No, there's something different about you."

Lisa felt guilty and even a little dirty for the birth control pills in her bag. She and Jackson had a rational, adult conversation about how things should be and they came to the conclusion that it would be best for Lisa to return to the prescription she had been on since her rape. Before that, condoms had been her choice form of birth control since she had rarely been sexually active, but after her assault, the pill was the closest she could get to invincibility despite its lack of 100% guaranteed protection. Jackson had tweaked a few records at her old pharmacy and in no time flat, her old prescription had been transferred to the locally owned pharmacy in Stoneybrook under her current alias.

"I came to terms about a lot of stuff," Lisa admitted. "I think I'm finally going in a direction that's healthy for me."

* * *

**March, 2012**

Agent King pinned a picture of Lisa's mother and Victor to the theory board in his apartment. Papers were stacked up in all corners and boxes of files were strewn haphazardly across the floor. It was like an obstacle course in his living room and a more appropriate comparison could not have been made given all the obstacles he was currently facing in an attempt to crack the Rippner case wide open.

He looked at the stills from the security camera at Trump Tower and compared them to the photograph from the local fair in a town called Stoneybrook, Connecticut. It was them alright. Jackson Rippner was not a man to stand still, to wait patiently while people were out looking for him. He would take an active approach to secure the situation so he could return to his version of normalcy. With Lisa Reisert in tow, however, Rippner was a puzzle. He seemed to have a specific agenda when he took a plane with Reisert to Switzerland, and King was certain the agenda was to empty out his accounts. A man like Rippner would surely have a nest egg that was quite sufficient for several years on the run, but could he risk running with a hostage? Reisert seemed to be cooperating and there was a distinct lack of fear on her face—Stockholm Syndrome, perhaps?

On top of all of this, there was the anonymous phone call warning King to back off. Someone else was watching. Rippner's people would want the authorities chasing him because that would force him to remain on the run and he would be more apt to make a mistake that way. Allowing the law to do their jobs would in essence do the Company's job for them. If it wasn't Rippner's people calling him, was it Rippner himself? The voice seemed supportive of Rippner's side, but he or she wasn't sympathetic to his cause.

King stared at the photo from the fair, hoping it would come to life and explain everything. Right now, the only explanation he had was that Rippner and Reisert were hiding somewhere near Stoneybrook, Connecticut. Even if all the evidence disproved that idea, his gut instinct was the only entity in the world that he could trust. Until he found solid evidence, he was at the mercy of his anonymous caller.

* * *

Lisa was restless, so she untangled herself from Jackson and slipped out of bed. She quickly dressed and quietly descended the stairs. Something had been nagging her for days and she couldn't put her finger on it. She stopped at the wall and gazed at it with reverence. The wall had essentially become a deity in its own right, somewhere between the commonality and usefulness of a Magic Eight Ball and the omnipotence of The All-Seeing Eye. They had done everything with it that they could think of and an answer seemed to tread farther away from them with each passing day.

Lisa touched her side of the wall, starting with her own picture and name. Her finger followed the lines that connected her mother, her brothers, and finally her father.

Her fingertips remained on her father's name before trailing upward to his picture. She traced the creases on his face, reminding herself of the man she hadn't seen in months and whose face was sadly becoming more blurred in her memory.

She gasped. "Oh my God." Her hand covered her mouth with a loud clap that echoed in the dark room.

Her father was with the Company.

* * *

**TBC…**


	11. Ch 10: A Negative Future

**Chapter 10: A Negative Future**

* * *

**March, 2012**

Lisa was restless, so she untangled herself from Jackson and slipped out of bed. She quickly dressed and quietly descended the stairs. Something had been nagging her for days and she couldn't put her finger on it. She stopped at the wall and gazed at it with reverence. The wall had essentially become a deity in its own right, somewhere between the commonality and usefulness of a Magic Eight Ball and the omnipotence of The All-Seeing Eye. They had done everything with it that they could think of and an answer seemed to tread farther away from them with each passing day.

Lisa touched her side of the wall, starting with her own picture and name. Her finger followed the lines that connected her mother, her brothers, and finally her father.

Her fingertips remained on her father's name before trailing upward to his picture. She traced the creases on his face to remind herself of the man she hadn't seen in months, the man whose identity was sadly becoming more blurred in her memory.

She gasped. "Oh my God." Her hand covered her mouth with a loud clap that echoed in the dark room.

Her father was with the Company.

"'Freed from desire, then you can see the hidden mystery,'" she faintly quoted to herself under her breath. She continued to touch her father's picture, her fingers triggering images in her mind of his evolution from a strong younger man to the older, slightly chubbier version she knew today.

She had been plagued with desires for months, even years. Her immediate desire for the last half-year had been to decipher the mystery that taunted them on a daily basis and mocked their ignorance and blindness. Her desire for years was to feel again, to be normal, to somehow transform herself from an ethereal essence to a solid human form again. Her unspoken desire for Jackson, the only person she could cling to during the emotional hurricane, had lurked beneath the surface for weeks, even months. Because she was distracted by her desire for Jackson, her desire to solve the mystery had lessened and ultimately opened her mind in ways she never knew was possible. Now that she was over her issues with Jackson, now that she had grown beyond the crutch of her rape as an excuse to hide from life, she could finally see what had been in front of her all this time.

She was freed from desire and she could at long last see the hidden mystery.

Most children were familiar with their parents' jobs. Normal parents came home after a hard day's work and complained about whatever miniature disaster that had threatened mankind at their office, or they shared some humorous anecdote about what the dopey fool in the cubicle next door did at lunch. Her mother did this, but her father didn't.

Most children had seen their parents' workplace. Normal parents brought their kids to work once in a while to brag to everyone, or they shuttled the family up to the company's Christmas luncheon. Co-workers would drop by the house or socialize with a kid's normal parents because it was only natural to make friends at work. Her mother did this, but her father didn't.

Most retirees were given going away parties at work. Her mother received a party before moving to Florida. Her father…nothing.

The phone calls were a distant memory to Lisa. She remembered how someone, or different people, would call the house every so often when she was especially young. The content of the call was always confusing to her and she thought that she didn't understand because she was just a child, but now as she tried desperately to recollect the hazy conversations as an adult, nothing came to her. It felt like the information was there, but it dangled before her like a carrot in front of a horse.

Lisa disappointedly removed her hand from her father's picture. He was her father and she loved him, but that didn't mean she had to like him at the moment. There was no way he was not Company and the fact that her father's occupation had brought so many risks and dangers into their lives made her sick. Her mother had even paid the price for it. Lisa would have been a victim to his job too if it hadn't been for her father stepping in at the last second when Jackson had taken a temporary sabbatical from sanity.

Did her father know that Jackson was Company? Or, worse yet, did Jackson suspect that her father was Company?

Nausea overwhelmed Lisa and bile rose into her throat. Her father. Joe Reisert. Dad…_Daddy_. A stranger. The man who had dough and flour on his hands at Christmas every year of her childhood when they made cookies together also had blood on his hands. He had always brought home a present for her after every one of his "business trips." Did he purchase the trinket before or after he took an innocent's life?

Most private citizens who owned handguns could shoot, but they weren't perfectionists who could put bullets exactly where they wanted them without batting an eye or wavering in the slightest. When her life had been in danger, her father had turned into the same robot she had seen before in the form of the robot named Jackson Rippner.

Her father was no better than Jackson and she unconditionally gave her love to her father, no questions asked, but Jackson had to prove himself to her every single day before she would open her head or her heart to the idea of loving him.

It would appear that the two were more alike than any of them had realized.

* * *

Lisa carefully maneuvered herself under the bedcovers and turned her back to Jackson, who was lying on his stomach, his arms under his pillow and his legs haphazardly turned in a way that could only be comfortable to him. The sheets beneath her had long since grown cold and she could feel it through her pajamas.

Her father was Company. Her father was Company. Her father was Company.

Lisa closed her eyes and endeavored to navigate the mental archives of her childhood. She remembered the strange phone calls. She remembered his business trips. She remembered her parents' secret fights when he would return, but she also remembered how quickly life seemed to return to normal.

Everything hinged on her ability to remember. Remember, remember, remember!

She remembered her parents after her rape and their reaction had been equal parts concern for Lisa and resentment toward one another. Lisa had always assumed that her mother's story about needing freedom was true, that she merely wished to live without having to be the second place runner-up to everything, but when Lisa looked back upon the event with this new perspective, she couldn't help noticing that the divorce must have been related _somehow_ to her attack, even though the timelines didn't quite align. She was assaulted a year after the divorce, but in hindsight she could see that her parents had known it was coming—they _had _to have known. Her mother had begged her to leave Florida and return to Texas. She had thought it was just her mother's protective nature, but now she could see it clearly. Her mother had suspected that Lisa would become a target and she didn't trust Joe to keep her safe. Lisa was the weak link that would be easy to reach for anyone who wanted to send her father a message. Her mother was angry at her father around that time and it could only be because…he was to blame.

He brought evil into his family's life.

Her mother's death had used up her supply of tears for a lifetime, so Lisa was unable to cry when she connected her rape to her father's job. The Company had undertaken action against him by sexually assaulting her.

She rushed from the bed to the bathroom.

* * *

Jackson grunted as he woke up. He hated sleeping on his stomach, but somehow he had found his way into that position and had apparently maintained it all night. His left arm felt around in search of soft warm flesh, but all he discovered was a cold vacant spot and a pillow that had long ago lost its indentation.

"Leese?" he asked in a rough voice as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He rubbed the back of his neck as he let his sleep-filled eyes adjust to the small ray of morning sun that had sneaked in through the window on the other side of the room. The adjoining bathroom door was closed and Lisa usually left it open. Jackson trudged out of bed and, despite his lingering exhaustion, still managed to creep toward the door in his typical stealthy way.

His knuckles softly thumped against the door. "Lisa?"

Lisa had been sitting on her bathroom floor for several hours. The more she thought about this distasteful matter, the sicker she felt. It was unfair to be "freed from desire" only to become prisoner to knowledge. The information she was starting to interpret changed everything, and the more she thought it about, the more she felt herself, her life, and her circumstances drastically alter.

She had always carried her nerves at the top of her stomach. In school, many class presentations came only after she had emptied her stomach's contents in sheer terror. On the plane, she dry heaved as she struggled to come to terms with Jackson's threats against her and her father.

Her father. He was in her thoughts again. Lisa opened the toilet and heaved, but nothing came this time.

Jackson entered the bathroom and stared at her, an uncertain look on his face as if he had no clue what was happening or how to deal with it.

"I'm okay," she insisted, wiping at her runny eyes and nose. Her hand had stopped shaking and for that she was genuinely grateful. She had to learn to compartmentalize and control her physical reactions to things. She would never be able to handle the rest of this mystery's resolution if she couldn't even handle a simple truth about…_him_.

"You don't look okay," Jackson cautiously stated. "What do you need me to do?" Lisa was pleased with him for being more sensitive than most people, especially men. He skipped over the part about asking if there was anything he could do and instead admitted that he knew she needed him and that he was ready to do what she requested. Whatever was wrong with her, he would let it go because she seemed to be in control, but the instant she lost that control, he would intervene.

"I think I'm just going to take the day off," she began as she shuffled to her feet. Jackson reached out and offered her a hand, and she reluctantly took it. It wasn't his fault that he was the embodiment of everything she did not want to think about right now. It also wasn't his fault that psychology almost dictates that girls seek out their fathers in their potential mates. The initial similarities between the two had been disturbing and oddly coincidental, but now they were just annoyingly textbook. She hated being yet another statistic in yet another category.

"I'm going to crawl into bed and get warm and go to sleep," she explained as she commenced the long and slow journey back to the bed. She had already made it under the covers before Jackson ever transferred his scrutiny from the inside of the bathroom to the bed. He was clearly attempting to comprehend this matter and it was a lengthy process. It was more than just sickness and he was suspicious. Lisa hated how his logic masqueraded as intuition and his eyes studied her in search of her unacknowledged truth.

She would share her story with him, how her father was Company and how she was assaulted because of it, when she knew the whole story. When he was ready to hear it, she would share it. When she was ready to tell it, she would share it.

Right now, she had to focus on getting her mind back together, to once again forget the feel of hot, calloused hands holding her against her will as she was taken like an animal. She had to learn to push aside the picture of her doting father as the cause of that violation.

She had to make herself not unlike the Company men she resented.

* * *

Lisa had moped around for a few days after she realized her father was Company and that her attack was associated with that fact, but she decided that Jackson was right. Her scars, both mental and physical, were her power. They made her a survivor and they made her want to march onward, not as a victim, but as the aggressor who was willing to fight. She drove aside all the emotions that were eating away at her and she fixated her strong will toward something more important: finding herself.

She knew she wouldn't stand a chance against the Company if she was already keeping herself weak and frail. Lisa was in great physical shape because she was muscular and strong, but her body contained nothing else outside of that muscle mass. She was once a woman who had slight curves that were not the image of fantasies, but they were at least soft and made her look and feel supple and feminine. Now, she felt hard and hollow, her body nothing more than a well-equipped vehicle for her brain. She wanted to change that. She wished to look in the mirror and see that same healthy person from years ago, to look at her eyes and know what color they were. She had to recondition herself and that was not something that would happen by chance or automatically at will.

Lisa went online and made a game plan. She designed a diet that would help her gain enough fat to be healthy while she made adjustments to her workout that would allow for her to keep her muscle mass and strength without sacrificing her appearance. It wasn't vanity; it was a desire to be human again.

Once her body joined the category of acceptability, along with her suppressed emotions and her mental control, she would be strong again. She would have the ability to look into the mirror and see herself. She would be able to hold her own against the Company, save the lives of herself and those she held dear, and she would destroy all those who had vowed to destroy her.

* * *

**April, 2012**

"Here's a theory for you," Jackson hollered from the dining room to Lisa in the kitchen. "The Piper met you in person and he…or she," he added broadmindedly, "thinks that you somehow figured it out and now he just wants to take both of us out in a way that proves a point to all associated with this assignment."

Lisa dried the freshly washed object with a paper towel and joined Jackson in the dining room. "You yourself said that the Company doesn't do things that will draw unnecessary attention. Killing me, and you, for something that may or may not have happened seems risky to me." She leaned against the table, mimicking Jackson's casual pose, and took a huge bite out of the bright green item in her hand as if it were an apple.

Jackson's gaze slowly shifted from the distressingly complicated wall to the strange occurrence happening next to him. "That's a bell pepper," he declared deliberately, plainly stating the obvious.

Lisa swallowed hard. "Yeah, so?" she asked. She took another bite. Lisa had loved bell peppers since she was a little girl. Her mother would always buy them at the local farmers' market and bring them home for use on almost everything from sandwiches and salads to pizzas. Lisa's favorite use was when her mother made her legendary stuffed bell peppers. In Miami, her mother didn't make them as much for whatever reason, but every now and then, Lisa would think about her mother's secret recipe and her mouth would water. Part of the diet she had devised called for her to eat for pleasure from time to time. She had done that two or three times with Jackson over the last few months, but those two or three times weren't nearly enough for it to be therapeutic for her.

His face contorted ever so slightly. "I can honestly say that I've never seen anyone eat a pepper like that," he told her, taking in how she held it and munched on it as if it were a fruit.

Lisa offered the pepper to him with massive chunks missing. "Want some?" she offered, her mouth full.

"I'll pass, thanks."

* * *

Lisa stopped pedaling the stationary bike. She yanked her sweat-soaked gray t-shirt over her head and in a distinctively non-feminine way used it to wipe dry her face and chest around her thin-style sports bra. She got up from the bike and walked over to the newly-installed full-length mirror that was on the storage closet door in their gym. She had only been on her self-improvement plan for a little under three weeks, yet she saw a change. Her skin, albeit pale, seemed to have more life and color to it. Her circulation had improved thanks in a small part to sex and chocolate. Her body was still slim, yet she felt more solid and fuller than before. She hadn't noticed how thin she was until she started gaining healthy weight. There had been many times in her life when she had thought, in typical girl fashion, that she was too fat and needed to lose weight, but now she could appreciate a little fullness. It was a sign of dignity and respect.

For weeks, Lisa and Jackson maintained a scheduled sexual relationship. Jackson never ceased to amaze her as he joined with her in their nighttime ritual two or three times a week, each time approaching it as a businessman doing a job. He had gone above and beyond her expectations to show respect for her, to refrain from doing anything that would startle her or make her feel uncomfortable. He made sure they were equals in every way and that both received their fair share of assigned pleasure.

At first, Jackson's efforts were appreciated by a very apprehensive Lisa, but now his behavior was losing its charm.

Lisa liked to think that the two of them had changed, that they had grown closer and more intimate with one another in ways that went beyond the physical. There were many barriers that still remained between them, but the biggest hurdles were conquered and only the small stuff was left for them to address.

Their story had been told in reverse. Most couples meet, date, fall in love, have sex (or perhaps have sex and then fall in love), get married, and move into their dream house together. Lisa and Jackson had spat in the face of the traditional American Dream and done it all their own way. They met (in a _not-so-typical_ romantic comedy way), moved into their dream house together, got "married," had sex, and skipped those pesky bits about falling in love, dating, or even kissing.

Lisa had felt the tug of love upon her heart, the urge to open her soul again and allow someone inside her completely, but every time she thought she could give him her love and share herself with him, something happened to remind her that neither of them could love. She didn't know if the trace of love that lingered within her was genuine and could be given, or if it was a habit leftover from how she was years ago. When she became lost in the sea of Jackson's eyes, she could swear she saw the battle between his logical mind and his other half, the half that only knew love through a limited quantity as expressed by his restricted, abused mother. Worse than that, when she looked into Jackson's eyes, Lisa was almost certain she saw something that she had assumed he was even less capable of than love; she saw fear.

Jackson's background with women and his own observation of his parents' marriage had apparently set the stage for his behavior with Lisa. He dealt with her emotions and her body with the gentle gloved hands of an archeologist who was handling an ancient treasure. His own body's reactions were tightly chained to maintain his proper appearance. He was a vision of correct customer service in making sure that she was satisfied.

Lisa was sick of being satisfied. She wanted to feel. She wanted Jackson to feel. They were never going to grow, to find freedom, to experience life or love if they never moved beyond being safe with one another in their safe house.

Since discovering that her father was inadvertently to blame for her rape, she had experienced difficulty sleeping. She wanted to stop eating, stop breathing, curl into a ball, and cry. She couldn't do that. Lisa had come to initial terms with her attack years ago by dealing with Jackson the first time they met, but now it was as fresh again in her mind as if it had just occurred. When she and Jackson were together, she could close her eyes and permit herself to be transported to a safe place far away from that memory, but when they were apart during the day, she was trapped alone in the prison of her own history. She would never be able to find happiness with those images haunting her. She would never be able to solve this mystery with her mind so absorbed in the horrors of her past. She would never learn to love herself or share the love she had for Jackson with him until she could exorcise her demons.

She stepped away from the mirror and began stretching her body to cool down from her exercise session.

* * *

After a refreshing shower, Lisa put on a pair of jeans and a wide-necked gray sweater. She actually left the top button undone and the scar marring her breast was ever so slightly visible. She was becoming more confident, no longer feeling the need to hide in the presence of herself or her lover.

Her lover—Jackson, her lover. It was a foreign concept when vocalized by lips or thoughts, but she savored the sound regardless.

She stayed barefooted, loving the conflicting duality of restrictive denim in contrast to exposed bare feet on soft carpet and chilly hard floors. She had towel-dried her short hair enough that it was essentially dry, so she tucked the natural waves behind her ears and headed downstairs to see what was for dinner. Jackson had commandeered the kitchen for the evening. Legitimate cooking was a rare occurrence in their house because they usually opted for simple no-cook foods (salads, fruits or vegetables, preservative-laden and sodium-soaked frozen meals, and so on) or take-out that they would either have delivered or pick up through a convenient drive-in window. When they did cook, it was usually a team effort. Tonight, though, Jackson wanted to prepare something on his own.

When Lisa arrived in the kitchen, she heard the distinctive sound of a knife slamming against a chopping block in record speed.

"I'd offer to help, but you seem to have it under control," she noted as Jackson broke down the red onions into tiny pieces on the wooden board. He wore a pair of dark blue jeans and a black t-shirt that was sloppily untucked. His hair was disheveled from being a little too long to stay pushed back out of his face. His predominantly white sneakers were on his white-socked feet, but the laces were undone and the tops were stretched open casually.

Satisfied that the red onion was chopped down to the right size, he used the knife to help push it next to the tomato pile. "It's perfectly under control," Jackson assured her as he turned around to the stove top just in time to stir the steaming beef, red and green peppers, and large white onions. He picked up the iron skillet and threw the contents into the air to help stir it.

"Show off." Lisa leaned over the island, propping herself up on her elbows as she watched the show unfold before her.

"Don't be jealous," Jackson chided. He placed the skillet down on an unused burner so that it wouldn't continue cooking. Not bothering with an oven glove, he quickly took an aluminum foil wrapped parcel from the oven and dropped it on the counter top while chanting a chorus of "hot" and "ow" repeatedly. Lisa smiled to herself, not at his pain, but at how pleasantly human he was in that very moment. He was so ordinary and unassuming. There was no traumatic childhood. There was no unsavory backstory involving an airplane. There was no criminal occupation. There was just a man cooking a meal (in typical man-style) in the kitchen of a regular couple's house, a house that still had stark white walls that she swore to paint eventually.

Jackson removed a large bowl from the refrigerator and put it down on the island next to Lisa. "What?" he questioned inquisitively. She had a dreamy smile on her face and he couldn't help grinning just a little at her adorableness.

She stood up straight and took a few steps closer to him. "Nothing," she swore, still beaming at how much she enjoyed having normalcy with him. Even if it was only temporary, even if it was only an illusion, part of it was real and it was that part that struck a chord with her. His gold wedding band sparkled under the bright overhead kitchen lights. He wore it all the time so that he was always in character and in scenarios like this, Lisa could pretend it was all real.

As he peeled off the clear cling-wrap top from the bowl, he felt Lisa's fingers combing the hair at the base of his neck. It was something she had done for months, a habit that she couldn't break and he had no desire to break her of it. It was part of her observation of him as she determined when it was time for him to get a haircut—and cutting his hair was still her job. She did a decent job, but the truth was that he just liked being near her, to have her hands run freely through his hair. He took private pleasure in smelling her, differentiating between the sweetness of her body wash and that of her own feminine nature. Her warm body would always crowd against his, accidentally touching here and bumping there as she violated his personal space in order to make him look like Jack Roberts, the perfect neighbor and ideal ordinary citizen. "You need a haircut," she predictably stated as she had many times before, her fingers still sifting through the ends of his hair.

He turned and her fingers instead found themselves making contact with his cheek. She stretched out her hand to cup the length of his face. She was compelled to trace the barely visible scars and the newly arriving lines of age. He still looked young, younger than her despite being her senior by a year or two, but his middle age was starting to make an appearance—at least to her. She had memorized every line, every freckle, every scar, every long dark eyelash, first out of distress, but now out of love. She longed to truly feel the emotion that she had locked away inside, to share it with him, to show it to everyone in the world, but she couldn't. She didn't know how to do it. She didn't know how he would react to it. She didn't know if it was borne of desperation and loneliness, or if they had been right when they had concluded it was chemistry and it was inevitable.

Without hesitation, Lisa leaned in and fully planted her lips against his. Her hands went around his head and laced his hair through her fingers as she kissed him with slow dedication, a sign of genuine affection rather than shallow lust. This was an act of love as she deepened the kiss, but he wasn't responding to her. His mouth remained still and his hands were at his sides awkwardly.

Horrified at her actions, Lisa withdrew from him by at least a foot. Jackson didn't love her. He _couldn't _love her. She was a fool. She couldn't meet his eyes as she tried to even her breathing, to control her panic at being rejected so crassly. She worked up enough nerve to look up at him and she saw him gazing down at her with confusion and…something else. He was regarding her as if she had morphed into a Hydra right before his very eyes. Sex was automatic and gave a clear reward of satisfaction to its participants. Lisa had been stupid enough to believe that Jackson would respond to her with something as personal, simple, and poignant as a kiss.

When she moved to walk away, Jackson grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him in a scene that could have easily been movie magic if their world had been limited to film with an omniscient overseer adding a sweeping instrumental score to make the encounter more epic. She was completely engulfed in his arms as returned her kiss tenfold, their lips and tongues meeting for the first time. The blood rush from her pounding heart echoed in her ears and made the world spin almost as much as he was already doing for her.

Jackson lost himself in the sensation of being at her mercy, letting her reach him in a way that wasn't safe or cautious in any logical way. It felt liberating to be in such danger with her, to know that for every interlude where their lips danced with one another, they were jeopardizing everything that they knew as security. He had refrained from ever kissing her before now because kissing was too untidy. Sex was clear-cut and structured. It was a procedure with little room for deviation if it was done proficiently. Kissing, however, was just a jumbled mess of emotions and chaos. It was intimate and subjective, with no place to hide, no formula to stick to, and no way to avoid being at the mercy of the other person. He had wanted to kiss her, but he didn't know how he could do so without launching consequences for both of them to endure. He had no clue how Lisa would react to a kiss, especially one from him, and he had no idea if he could even kiss her accurately. A real kiss was like a transfer of consciousness, a connection between minds in love rather than bodies craving flesh. A true kiss was more thought-oriented whereas sex was more decadent and body-oriented. He wished that Lisa could read his mind so she could know the cerebral conflict he dealt with every waking moment of his day, more so now that she had become a certifiable living, breathing issue in his life.

Lisa broke the kiss and both reluctantly parted, their eyes cast downward in avoidance as their foreheads leaned against one another. They were afraid of how the other would react now that everything had changed between them yet again. Jackson finally met her eyes a mere millisecond before she met his. She licked her lower lip, her teeth bashfully pinching it back, and she smiled shyly. He chuckled uncomfortably as he allowed his hands to slip away from her by detouring down her arms.

When Lisa's smile widened optimistically, Jackson realized that maybe, just maybe, this could end well after all.

* * *

As Jackson finished preparing their meal, Lisa cleared aside their research materials in the dining room and set the table that they seldom utilized for meals. She neatly arranged all of the essentials for a properly set table, including their never before used placemats. They would probably not use all of the different forks or drink from multiple glasses, but she wanted to contribute something to the evening. She struck a match and lit the candles in the middle of the table. They typically ate on the floor as they chatted about their latest conspiracy theories or they lazily lounged in front of the television to watch a series or a movie. This evening, Lisa decided to turn on some music. She retrieved Jackson's new iPad from where he had left it on the couch and plugged it into the speaker dock on the floor in the corner of the dining room. He hadn't built a music collection on it yet, so she accessed an online music-only radio station and let it contribute to the ambiance of the atmospheric room. She hoped that setting a mood would distract from the professional graffiti they had tagged on the walls.

She helped him dish-out the finished meal and transport their dishes to the table. "It took a few years, but we're finally able to have something that almost resembles quality Tex-Mex," he bragged. They had tried doing Tex-Mex before, but this was the first time that it had been created with meticulous effort. This was a special night…_almost_ a first date. In keeping with their unconventional tradition, the anti-normal couple had their first kiss before their first date, not after.

Lisa sat down at the middle of the table, and he returned to the kitchen to grab two bottled beers from the refrigerator and turn off the kitchen light. "Now it's authentic," he joked, passing her an open bottle. "It's not as good as the airport's, but it'll do." He sat directly in front of her in the middle of the table.

The lighting in the house was low and the candles produced most of the ghostly glow that floated about the dark first floor of the house. Jackson held up his bottle and Lisa mimicked his gesture. She proposed a toast.

"Here's to always looking forward."

* * *

On Saturday, Lisa ripped the newly arriving weeds from the flower beds she had planted along the sidewalk to the front door. Winter had been kind to her outdoor plants, but now that spring was starting to arrive, weeds were beginning to infiltrate her flowers' sanctuary and that sort of behavior would not be tolerated. Jackson had mowed the grass and then, against his will, ended up on a ladder to clean out the gutters. Every few minutes, Lisa heard a series of inappropriate words creatively strung together, followed by a chorus of groans and other sounds of generalized displeasure. She would snicker at his misery and enjoy the mediocrity of their false lives.

"Hey, guys!" Anna's voice startled Lisa and she flinched. Behind her, Frank and Anna were strolling hand in hand across the grass lawn.

"Hey, you two!" Lisa returned. She stood up, pulled off her gardening gloves, and brushed the soil from her jeans. "How was the cruise?"

"Oh, it was fantastic!" Anna exclaimed. Frank kissed Anna's hand before separating from her and heading off to find Jackson. "Frank wasn't impressed because he's retired and every day is a vacation to him, but for me," she said, clutching her chest, "heaven!"

"I remember a little about that," Lisa mused, reflecting upon her days of employment with fondness. She missed the hectic lifestyle of being in the customer service industry, but after years of not taking a break, she was learning to like being "between jobs."

"How's the job hunt going?" Anna asked yet again. Since they first met, Anna had tried to help her find a job in the area, but nothing seemed to pan out thanks to Lisa escaping and evading every effort at occupational matchmaking.

"Nothing yet," Lisa lamented in her best slightly depressed voice.

"You seem happy, though."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You have a…_glow_ about you." Lisa froze, panic solidifying her blood in place within her veins.

"A glow?" Lisa repeated cautiously. She hated having to come up with false truths to evade invasive questions.

"Yeah, you look great. You seem happy…like a woman in love. You didn't seem like that before. I guess your problems worked themselves out?" Lisa had to think for a few seconds about what Anna could be referencing, then she recalled a conversation long ago in which she had opened up to Anna about how she and Jackson had first gotten together (the modified version, of course), followed more recently by her vague comments concerning some decisions she had made.

"I think everything is going to be okay," Lisa commented, more to herself than Anna. Anna picked up on this and couldn't let it go.

"Do you want everything to be okay?" Anna inquired suspiciously. Lisa seemed like she was afraid of having happiness in her life and experiencing anything other than sorrow.

Lisa nodded firmly. "I think I do."

* * *

Jackson hated yard work. Cleaning the inside of the house was not a problem. In fact, it was rather fun for him because he had an OCD streak that made cleaning, organizing, and sanitizing almost enjoyable. But working outside—he would rather be back in prison and getting his annual beat-down. Outside work was dirty and dusty. There were allergens in the air, and there were unidentifiable variables that he would discover and they would leave him disgusted. He wasn't sure what most of the materials were in the gutters, but there was no way it could have been clogged leaves and pine straw alone.

When their outside day was over, he wasted no time peeling off his smelly work clothes and stepping into his shower. He was rinsing the soap from his hair and skin when he heard the distinctive creak of the bathroom door opening. Through the foggy shower door, he saw a familiar female figure strip out of her clothes. Words that he should have said and needed to say all evaporated from his mind as he gave in to his baser instincts and lusted after the contorted flesh-colored blob. When his shower door opened and the blur turned into the clearly visible shape of his lover, he almost yelped from pure surprise. Lisa closed the door behind her and slid underneath the spray of water with him as if everything was perfectly normal and this was a typical day for them.

"Hey," she said ordinarily.

Jackson cleared his throat, not to criticize her, but to free a knot that had suddenly shut down his voice and air passage. "Hey," he weakly returned.

"You don't want me here?"

Jackson started re-evaluating what may have actually been in the gutters that he cleaned earlier. Surely there was some sort of fungus that possessed hallucinogenic properties because he was obviously imagining Lisa at this very instant. She asked if he wanted her here—did she mean in the shower with him? Or perhaps she meant if he _wanted_-wanted her in the shower? Or maybe—

He became positive of her presence when the confidence drained from her face. She appeared as embarrassed and disgraced as she had in the kitchen when he didn't return her kiss immediately. Something had gotten into her lately that changed everything about her. At first, Lisa was predictable. She was like a good school girl who was capable of being bad, but chose to be good for fundamentally-sound reasons. Now, however, she was more daring and willing to explore possibilities other than always being the victim. Jackson had treated her with the utmost respect their entire time together, more so after they became sexually involved. He had continued to professionally suppress his own masculine nature, the nature that commanded him to possess and dominate her, to take full pleasure from her no matter how she felt about giving her all to him, but now it was getting harder and harder to do so. Lisa's new bravery and curiosity about the world she had avoided for so long was making it harder for him to be the monster who could behave as a gentleman.

With a sense of rejection comparable to earlier in the kitchen, Lisa turned to exit the shower. "Wait," he commanded. Water poured over his head, flattening his hair over his forehead. "Why?"

"Why what?" she asked. If it were any other woman, Jackson would have been certain that she was being coy and intentionally dense, but this was Lisa. There was still an innocence about her and that would never change.

"Why are you here, Leese? What do you want?"

She slicked his hair out of his face. "You ask too many questions." The heavy stream of hot water continued to cascade down upon both of them. Lisa seemed small and shaky, her body language contradicting the daring determination on her face. It took a lot for her to be in this situation right now. "Jackson, do you…want me?"

Jackson hated when she asked questions like that. She should know the answer. It should go without saying. Whatever answer he did give her would undoubtedly rock her to the core. She would be repulsed and frightened by him if he said "yes." She would be depressed and humiliated if he said "no." If he avoided the answer, she would be left in limbo and most likely resent him for whatever assumption she placed upon his silence.

"We understand each other," Jackson stated, falling back upon their old form of communication, a language only they could decode because they were similar creatures.

"You kissed me second," she said, her woman-speak sounding like a foreign language to him. She was taking this bizarre conversation in a totally new direction now and he wasn't sure if he was following it.

Lisa had kissed him first and he had kissed her second. That was accurate. He didn't respond. He couldn't understand what the problem was with her account of events, but apparently something was wrong with how things had unfolded. "I did," he concurred merely to fill the void.

"You have sex with me like you're doing a job."

Jackson was officially lost now. "I don't—"

"If you wanted me, if you felt for me the way I feel for you, you'd desire me. You wouldn't handle me with kid gloves. You'd take charge and…" Lisa wasn't sure what she wanted to say. This had all made sense to her when she had practiced the conversation in her head countless times over the last week.

"…And what?" Jackson demanded, an indignant and rather offended tone sneaking into his usually professional voice. "And make you? Be rough and degrade you? Maybe throw you against the wall? Do you want to see Jackson Rippner lose his mind again and hurt you?" Jackson was appalled and for once, it wasn't at himself. Lisa was insane if she thought she could come to him and look for violence to aid in her self-loathing process. If she didn't know by now how he regarded her, then there was no way she would ever comprehend who he truly was.

"No!" Lisa barked in equal offense. "No," she added calmly. The only sound was the hard splatter of water hitting the stall. "I want to be whole again and I want you with me." It was starting to make sense to Jackson now. Lisa was evolving from the closed-down shell of a woman that she had become and growing into a real woman who was free from burdens and demons. "I want you," she timidly declared as she eliminated the space between them. She put her hands on his wet chest and she felt energized when her palm made contact with the steady beat of his heart. "And I hope you want me."

"I do," he promised her.

"Then don't hold back."

Jackson's blue eyes widened in disbelief. Lisa's hands began a slow journey downward over the bumpy scars and rolling hills of his muscles. When her hands trailed below his navel, he began to stiffen, his body on high alert. She had somehow acquired a sudden bout of courage to open up this way, but he didn't know if he could handle losing control and letting his hormones and seldom-used emotions take command. The last time that happened, he and Lisa ran through her father's house while playing a new game called Hide and Seek with Weapons.

"I won't break," she reminded him.

Lisa's hands made contact with his member and he tensed. His heart rate immediately skyrocketed and he couldn't catch his breath. This was not going to work. He could not do this. Sex was easy. But this? This was…this was…

Jackson was mid-thought when his body acted on autopilot against his every intention. He grabbed Lisa by the shoulders, spun her around on the wet floor of the shower stall, slammed her against the wall, and kissed her hungrily, not caring that he hadn't taken a breath or that he was starting to see stars. He closed his eyes and let sensation return to his body. He felt like he had gone numb and was only just now feeling circulation again. Tingles bounced through his limbs and an ache began to build in his manhood. He didn't know where this would lead him, or them, but Lisa trusted him to roam free from his mental shackles and confines, and if she could trust him, then he would have to trust her to know that she was aware of what they were doing.

Lisa purred from the back of her throat as Jackson's wide kisses abandoned her mouth and his tongue trailed moistly down her already wet neck. Like the vampire she sometimes believed him to be, he started biting at her neck, nipping at her ears, and nibbling the soft flesh just below her jawline. She had planned to talk to Jackson about their relationship, but none of her practice talks had prepared her for confronting him like this. This had been entirely improvisational and she didn't know that she even possessed this kind of nerve.

Now that she was here, now that she was naked and wet in a shower stall with Jackson, now that he was aggressively yet protectively licking the ugly scar across her breast, she knew that this was also under the umbrella of "inevitable."

Lisa shook herself out of her thoughts and made herself take action. She wrapped her arms around him, her nails digging into his back and dragging long scratches down to his buttocks. When she gripped his butt to coerce his body more fully against hers, he shocked her by picking her up and forcing her legs around his waist. He managed to have presence of mind to turn off the shower and clumsily knock open the stall door as they kissed frantically, enjoying the slight pain of accidental bites on the lips as their tongues wildly cavorted together.

Jackson still couldn't breathe and it was worsened by the wet friction of Lisa's opening being perfectly aligned with his already throbbing member as he carried her to his bed. They had never been in his bed and he couldn't recall Lisa even being in his room before now. Her room was safe. That was her territory. This was his territory and he was the ruler. He threw her down and collapsed on top of her just as she made contact with the blench-scented sheets of his unmade bed. She tried to wrap her arms around him, to hold him to her, but he wanted no such affection. He claimed her wrists in one hand and detained them on the pillow above her head as his mouth tasted the supple flesh of her perky and plump scarred breast. Her recent change in diet had helped her body start to resemble the woman he had once silently craved in his darkest moments as he monitored her from afar.

He balanced himself, half his weight on the arm that held back her wrists and half resting upon her and his knees, as his free hand disappeared. Lisa wasn't sure what he was about to do until she gasped in response to his private touch. Her body instinctively flexed upward in bliss to the point of pure rapture, but he kept her grounded on planet Earth. None of her prior partners had been concerned with her gratification. The act had merely been the act with no extra benefits for either party. Jackson had made sex an equitable exchange of basic need-meeting fornication, but now he would make sure this event was one that would satisfy the needs they hadn't acknowledged in most, if not all, of their adult lives.

She liberated a wrist from his grasp while he was distracted by his current task. Her hand went to his hair and tugged in frustration as his fingers worked magic on her. She panted and uttered a barely audible refrain of satisfaction as he thrilled her in a way that she had never before experienced. She jerked his head down to hers and resumed kissing him. As she kept his mouth occupied, she reached down and did some exploring of her own. When her hand made contact with its goal, he unintentionally bit down on her lip and both tasted blood. He navigated his mouth away from hers to avoid another accident. He punished himself by burying his face in the curve of her neck, his eyes and mouth on lockdown until he could once more control his own reactions. She blindly stroked and squeezed until he was completely intoxicated by her ministrations. He was having difficulty supporting himself over her as his arms threatened to give out on him, but like a trooper, he stayed strong amid adversity.

He had never been a passive participant in anything and to see him so entranced in something that surpassed mere yearning made Lisa desire him even more. He trusted her and she could finally see that trust as it manifested before her very eyes.

His eyes opened and instantly met hers. Silent communication passed between them as they each telepathically offered the other one last chance for escape, one last chance for self-preservation, because they were about to jump off a cliff and there was no climbing back up after the jump.

Lisa screamed in ecstasy as they made the jump that consummated their journey off the cliff.

* * *

Jackson awoke about two hours later and succeeded in making his unclear sight focus on the clock. They still had quite a few hours of night left before daylight returned to the world. He and Lisa had somehow worked their way under the top sheet that had been hanging half off the bed when they had started the night. The mattress was still soaked from their shower-drenched bodies carelessly rolling around and Jackson knew that if he was chilled from the wet sheets, so was Lisa.

He crawled out of the bed and quietly entered her bedroom. He pulled down the covers and returned for Lisa. Jackson carefully scooped her into his arms and took special care not to wake her from her idyllic slumber. He was exhausted from their amorous activities, but the cold had efficiently brought him back to reality and gave him the burst of strength he needed to coax his muscles into working again. He deposited Lisa in her bed and buried her under the covers before joining her. She groaned softly and repositioned herself, clearly oblivious to the journey she had just taken seconds before. Amusement lit his face as he propped up on his elbow and peered at her sleeping form. Her eyes were twitching as she dreamed in REM sleep.

She was keeping secrets from him. He had known for weeks that she was holding back something that he needed to know. He had a suspicion as to the nature of her knowledge, but he would not press her. She would tell him when it was time for him to know. Likewise, he would tell her what he had been keeping from her. He doubted she knew he was keeping a secret because unlike Lisa, Jackson's poker face didn't look like the doe-eyed guilty look of a six-year-old cookie jar bandit.

Jackson's eyelids were growing heavy as sleep once more beckoned him into its realm. He reclined his head onto his arm atop his pillow and he continued to watch Lisa sleep with acute fascination. Her short hair fanned around her head on her pillow, reminding Jackson of a halo. Lisa's face, once sunken inward in a sickly way, radiated a healthy hue from her now fuller cheeks. Her curves had returned in all the right places, giving his hands many places to hold onto selfishly.

It was as if she had been a stick drawing on a piece of scrap paper, but now she had transformed into a real person, a real woman. He could see her. He could hear her. He could touch her. He could taste her. He could smell her. She was real and the fact that he was partially responsible for bringing her back into the world was one of the few things in his life that he was actually proud enough to consider a genuine accomplishment. No matter how things turned out, no matter where they were in a year, two years, or ten years, he would know that he helped cure Lisa Reisert by doing what no one else had done: he refused to allow her to be the victim.

* * *

_Lisa's Barbie doll had curly hair and she hated it. Curly hair was hard to keep pretty. She liked it smooth. She tugged the poorly designed doll comb through the plastic bombshell's frizzy hair in an attempt to tame it when the phone rang. Lisa wasn't supposed to answer the phone. She was too young. Her older brothers were too young too. The phone rang again. She looked up from her doll to see if her mom was still in the kitchen, but she must have gone outside. She probably went to get the mail. Her mom didn't go outside much. That had to be it._

_She gently placed her doll on the floor and stood up. The phone rang yet again. She unhurriedly walked to the small table where the phone sat. It rang again. Lisa picked up the large device with both of her tiny hands and maneuvered it to her ear. She didn't like talking to people, especially strangers. Strangers were dangerous. She listened. No one said anything. Lisa listened some more just in case._

_"Tom Sawyer. 2 p.m."_

* * *

The phone rang and Lisa lunged forward in bed. "It's just the phone," Jackson whispered soothingly, his fingers caressing her arm. He leapt out of bed, undaunted by his lack of clothing, and ran across the hall to his bedroom to retrieve his cell phone. Lisa looked around and realized that she was in her room. Visions from the night before came rushing back. She touched the almost unnoticeable split in her lip with the tip of her finger and smiled at the war wound that she had proudly earned.

Jackson returned and crawled into bed, his body chilly from the early morning air that filled the house. "Frank," he informed her. "They want us over for dinner tonight." He didn't have to tell her what he gave for an answer because she knew it was an automatic "yes." They tried to avoid declining invitations when at all possible because they didn't want to arouse suspicion. Even when they didn't want to visit with people they actually considered friends, they still put on the smile and played the part. Jackson cuddled up against Lisa under their large pile of comfy covers.

"You feel good," he sighed. His arm snaked around her waist, guiding her from her back to her side as he drew her tightly to him. Their bodies no longer held secrets from one another, but their minds did.

"Last night was risky," he said, suddenly changing the mood of the moment. "Anything could have happened."

"I trusted you. I _trust_ you."

Jackson didn't like hearing her say that she trusted him. He was not worthy of trust. "I haven't earned it. You shouldn't be so generous with your trust."

"Maybe. But I think it worked out."

"It did," he answered, rubbing her lower back in a predictable pattern. "I was reluctant to…" He had been reluctant to do so many things: to surrender control; to give consent for his feelings to guide him; to make his logical mind take a much needed vacation; to make love to her rather than just have sex; to love her. But surely she knew all of that.

"I know. Me too," she admitted. "But I felt…"

He patiently waited for her words to come, but they never did. "You felt what?" he prompted.

Lisa smiled and glee swelled her heart, reminding her that it was in fact still there. "I felt," she proclaimed as her eyes filled with happy tears for a change.

"Me too."

* * *

Jackson lugged the potted plant, a peace lily, while Lisa carried the large plastic container of assorted cookies that she had made. They were the picture of normality as they strolled down the modestly illuminated sidewalk to Anna and Frank's house.

"You've been quiet all day. Everything okay?" Jackson asked. He was disappointed at himself for the apprehension he felt gnawing away at his stomach. He was at her mercy now and it was a weakness he couldn't afford to have. He was above such human limitations and to be vulnerable to someone else, particularly an emotionally volatile woman, was definitely a first for him.

"I'm fine," Lisa insisted, forcing a smile. Memories had been sneaking up on her all day, and that resulted in her completing her housework and then burying herself in baking three dozen cookies. She needed the privacy, the time alone to let her long forgotten knowledge reassert itself. She hadn't thought of how Jackson might interpret her solitude and avoidance, and she was ashamed at herself for allowing him think that it was his fault. "It's not you, it's me. Cliché, I know, but it's true," she rambled hastily.

Jackson came to a sudden stop and Lisa halted a few steps ahead of him when she gathered that he was no longer at her side. "If it's us—"

"No!" she was in his personal space in an instant. "Absolutely not," she swore to him. "It's all this stuff we're trying to figure out. I feel like something is right in front of me and I just can't see it. If I look at the wall again, I'll scream. But it's there. Whatever it is, I feel it and it's close." He stared at her with pity, and it wasn't a flattering expression for him or a welcomed one for her.

"This is hard, I know, but we'll get there. We'll figure it out. It isn't a race. I said it would take time and it is."

Jackson would never admit it, but he was secretly hoping that she would never piece together her mysterious puzzle. They could hide here forever and live happily ever after. They could be ordinary people. They could grow old and drink wine from a box as they shared decrepit guffaws over the good ole days. Or they could be executed at pointblank range in their sleep that night. Jackson's emotions were activated, and now they wanted constant attention and control. He was having difficulty shifting back to his usual personality, the automaton who was a decisive, calculating entity that could survive by running the numbers. This personality, the man who found enjoyment in watching another person sleep, was a liability that would get them both killed. He had to regulate it before it ruined everything.

Lisa nodded and the two resumed their slow and steady pace to their neighbors' house.

* * *

Frank and Jackson were in the living room chatting about Frank's plan to custom-build a vintage car in his many hours of free time while Anna and Lisa were in the kitchen finishing up dinner.

"What did you tell them? Please tell me this story ends with you going _Carrie_ on them," Lisa practically pleaded.

"I wish!" Anna snorted. "I told them that if they were going to set me up to take the blame for them, then I was going to go down in a blaze of glory. I'm their boss and all I have to do is strategically place a few 'missing' prescriptions and whatever they planned to do to me would be child's play. Knowledge is power, Elise, and I have both! Chuck would believe me over them any day!"

"Chuck?"

"My boss. Charles Hendricks."

_"__Tell your daddy that Chuck called, okay, Lisa?"_

Lisa felt dizzy. She clutched the kitchen counter and her body began to tilt over ever so slightly as the memory she had been waiting to discover overwhelmed her senses.

_The phone rang. Her mother was in the shower. Lisa stepped away from the television. Jem and the Holograms were singing a song, but the phone caught her interest more than her favorite show. She picked up the receiver as she had done every now and then for the last five months._

_She said nothing. She just waited for the voice she knew she would hear. The person always said weird things, sometimes things that were a little funny. Last time, it was that the "Big Bad Wolf will blow down the brick house tomorrow at 9:15." Lisa waited. Her cartoon, although at a moderate volume, was clearly heard in the background._

_"__Is this Lisa?" the voice asked with a nervous tinge. He sounded like he was scared. Lisa didn't say anything. "Is your daddy home?"_

_"__No," Lisa whispered, afraid that her mother would somehow hear her and she would get in trouble. Her mother was always angry when she thought Lisa was using the phone or talking to strangers._

_The voice sighed. He didn't want to talk to Lisa, but he had to talk to her father. It was important. "Tell your daddy that Chuck called, okay, Lisa?" Lisa nodded shyly and hung up the phone._

Lisa could hear the voice in her head clearly, as if it had been a digital recording permanently etched inside her brain. It was a voice she had heard many times over recent years, a voice she trusted and respected. He had always seemed familiar to her, but she just assumed it was because he was so famous—always on the news, always in the papers, always at the hotel. He never seemed to be anything but a kind, well-mannered, hard-working gentleman who loved his family and his country.

Charles Keefe, known as Chuck in his younger years, was her father's Company contact when she was a child.

Lisa's nerves kicked in and nausea churned inside her stomach. She wheeled around and dashed for the bathroom at full speed. It took Anna a few seconds to react and when she did, she swiftly removed the pan from the stovetop and lowered the oven settings to prevent dinner from burning. She ran in pursuit.

When Anna reached the bathroom, the door was slightly ajar and Lisa was on the floor in front of the flushing toilet. Lisa stood up and Anna entered the bathroom. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost," Anna spoke in hushed tones, reaching out to take Lisa's temperature the motherly way with a hand to the forehead.

Lisa washed her hands and ignored Anna. She finally had all the pieces. It was all falling into place. Charles Keefe was a Company man back in the day, perhaps even still today. Regardless, he was apparently her father's handler or whatever they called it. Her secret knowledge was that Keefe was Company and when the assignment was to assassinate Keefe, their worlds had all collided. She wasn't sure who called for the hit on Keefe, if Jackson's intel was accurate or not, but it was all taking shape now. She knew that one of the most powerful men in charge of keeping the country safe was one of the same criminals he condemned so boldly. The rest was nothing more than mere details.

"Elise?"

Lisa remembered where she was and she had to focus on the job. She didn't know what to say or how to excuse her reaction. "I'm not pregnant," she offered lamely. She suspected Anna believed that because their last few meetings had featured Anna talking about her slight weight gain and her glow.

"I know that," Anna answered confidently. "I've seen something in your eyes since I met you and I can tell that there's something eating away at you, and it's getting worse." Anna retrieved a wash cloth and wet it under the cold stream of the sink's faucet. "Something is bothering you. It's killing you." Lisa mentally rolled her eyes at the unintended irony of Anna's statement. "Elise, you're making yourself sick!" Anna passed Lisa the cold compress and Lisa obediently pressed it to her face and the back of her neck. She was thankful for it. It seemed to help.

"I have a secret. I can't tell Jack." This was one of the rare times where Lisa actually regretted not having the freedom to talk to Anna in truth, to tell her that her name was Lisa and Jack was actually Jackson, that they had almost killed each other years ago, and how she felt like she was being killed by the fear that their time together was coming to a close. Months ago, Lisa would have been grateful to see the finish line, to resolve an issue that was capable of destroying both of them, but now she was being selfish for once in her life. She wanted her life and her life was with him.

"Why not? He seems like he would understand…whatever it is."

A sad, dry laugh escaped Lisa's lips as she considered her options. "He would understand, but it would change everything between us. We could lose everything we worked so hard to build."

"He loves you. Anyone can see that." Lisa wanted to believe her, but she wasn't sure if Jackson really felt love for her, and if he did, would he be willing to act on it. "He won't give up on you, no matter what."

Lisa groaned as her stomach gurgled sickly. "Breathe slowly," Anna instructed. "Let me go get some saltine crackers for your nausea. They helped when I was pregnant."

Outside the door, Frank's jaw dropped open. He hadn't heard anything when he walked by the bathroom to get his cellphone from their bedroom, but on the return trip, he heard Anna giving Lisa advice for morning sickness. He quickly vacated the scene and headed back to Jackson in the living room.

"Even though you're not pregnant, nausea is still nausea," Anna continued, but Frank was not there to hear it. Anna left the bathroom with her arm supportively around Lisa, both uninformed of their audience.

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me?" Frank demanded as he entered the living room.

Jackson thought he was going to look at pictures of vintage car frames that Frank was considering buying, but now he found himself in the bonus round of Twenty Questions.

"Tell you what?"

"Elise is pregnant."

Jackson was certain that his heart stopped beating for at least five seconds. The world paused and he could hear its deafening silence assaulting his eardrums, pounding like the heartbeat that was not his own. He knew Lisa had been keeping a secret from him, but he had been so sure of himself and his deductive reasoning skills that he knew, just _knew_, it was job related. Even tonight on their way to dinner, Lisa had confirmed that she was stressed, not due to their relationship or anything personal, but because of the wall that cast a shadow over their every waking moment.

Lisa was pregnant. It was impossible. She was on the pill. She didn't skip it. She was Lisa and she never missed doing what she was supposed to do. They had never been careless except that one time when…

Except the first time.

This was impossible. This could not happen. This was not happening. They couldn't let this happen.

Jackson saw Frank's lips moving, but he heard no sound. Frank put his hands on Jackson's shoulders and guided him backward into a chair. "I take it you didn't know," Frank guessed, sitting on the couch across from Jackson.

"No," was all he could muster.

"I heard Anna telling Elise what to do about morning sickness."

Jackson was pretty sure he had his own case of morning sickness coming on because he felt sick. This was a variable that he had not calculated into the equation, something he could not have predicted or imagined even in his most emotionally compromised state. His assessment of the situation returned quick results. His initial evaluation had been accurate: this would not end well.

"You really didn't know?"

Jackson numbly shook his head.

"I've been through this three times, so I can tell you it starts out rough. She'll reenact all of your favorite scenes from _The Exorcist_ including projectile vomiting and mood swings that will make Satan seem like a school girl." Jackson glared at Frank in horror, equal parts because of the bombshell that had just been dropped on him as well as the knowledge of what he was in for with Lisa. In hindsight, he should have noticed. Lisa had been sick before, but he had taken her word for it when she said that she was simply ill. He had no other indications suggesting anything to the contrary, but he was still disappointed at himself for his ignorance.

Frank continued. "But after that passes, she'll start eating like a starving horse and believe me when I say she'll eat _anything_." Jackson remembered Lisa munching on a bell pepper as if people ate them like that every day.

"And when that passes comes the fun part," Frank assured him. "She'll spend hours moaning and groaning about being fat." Jackson had noticed Lisa was gaining weight, but it seemed to be healthy weight and it was all over rather than centralized. He hadn't spotted any new curves in the area of her abdomen, so apparently it was still too soon for that.

"But after all of that complaining, she'll jump your bones and won't take no for an answer!" Frank grinned as he fondly remembered that part of Anna's pregnancies. Maybe it was too soon for it according to Frank's calendar of events, but last night Jackson had found himself as an all-too-willing victim of Lisa's out of character seduction.

Jackson could not believe how blind he had been. He prided himself on his careful observation of everything and everyone, especially Lisa, yet here he was hearing life-changing news from his neighbor. He knew that tolerating Lisa inside his head and his…_heart_ would cripple him, leaving him pathetic and incapable. Worse than that, letting down his guard where Lisa was concerned had inadvertently created a new life, a life that would inevitably change everything.

* * *

Dinner was painstakingly slow and to say it was uncomfortable for everyone at the table was the understatement of the year. Frank had started things out by persuading Anna not to serve alcohol. He came up with every excuse in the book from the wine not complementing the meal to he was going to cut back on his alcohol intake so he could lose weight. When they sat at the table and started eating, Jackson caught himself staring at Lisa, while Frank stared at Jackson, and Anna stared at Frank. Lisa obliviously picked at her plate, more distracted by her realization about Keefe and her father than anything else.

Lisa took Jackson aside as Anna and Frank cleared the table. "Do you mind if we go?" she whispered as inconspicuously as possible. She glanced back and saw Anna and Frank in a hushed but semi-heated discussion at the kitchen sink.

"Why? Are you okay?" he questioned, unable to stop himself from showing concern. He didn't mean to be overprotective; it just slipped out. He wanted to remain objective in this situation because he knew that there was no way they could allow the pregnancy to continue. It would be an unnecessary danger for themselves as much as for the child. No good could come of it.

"I'm fine," she lied. Jackson caught her fib immediately. "But I think something's going on here and we should give them some space." Jackson cut his eyes toward the kitchen just in time to see Anna and Frank curiously direct their attention toward them.

"Let's make our excuses and get out of here."

* * *

"Are you coming up?" Lisa asked Jackson as he dragged himself reluctantly into the dining room. She still stood by the front door, not moving in any direction until she received a response from him.

"In a little bit. I have some things to check," he answered, not looking back at her. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and removed his dress shirt. Lisa watched as he pulled his undershirt out from where it was tucked neatly in his pants. He took off his shoes using only his feet and he kicked the offending business lace-ups aside. If he was dressing down, he was in this for the long haul. She exhaled dejectedly and trudged up the stairs.

When Jackson was positive that Lisa had gone to bed, he sat down at the table and turned on his iPad. He went to Google and searched. Jackson never started a job without doing his homework.

* * *

Around 9:30 p.m., Jackson went up to his bedroom to change into his sweat pants. He needed to work out, to clear his head and focus on the difficult decisions that were about to be made.

He pounded on the punching bag and with each hit he saw a flash of his mother's face. For some reason, he couldn't stop thinking about her. She had nothing to do with any of this, yet she was all but in the room with him at that very moment.

The choice was clear: they had to abort the pregnancy. There was no other way around it. A child would be a walking target for their enemies. It would be a weakness for them, both physically and emotionally. Lisa would be incapacitated for months and her physical needs would force them out into the open far too much for his liking. Hiding from the world was no place for a child to grow and thrive. More than any of that was the lingering fact that a criminal middle man and his former hostage, both victims of violent crimes and abuse, were quite possibly the worst possible candidates for parenthood. There was no way a child of theirs would be in his or her right mind, and to introduce an emotionally unstable child into this world was as much a damnation upon the world as it would be upon the child.

"That didn't last long," Lisa softly commented from the threshold of the door. She was in her pajamas made up of a terrycloth robe hanging open over a plain t-shirt and loose pants that came just below her knees.

Jackson stopped his assault on the punching bag. He hadn't realized how intensely he was beating it until the sweat on his forehead finally dropped into his eyes and burned. He lifted his gloved hand in the air and used his bare arm to wipe his face. "Sorry?" was his request for clarification.

"You usually think longer than two hours before you pack it up and start beating on the helpless punching bag." Jackson didn't have anything to say to her. She hadn't told him of her condition yet and he was not going to bring it up until she did so first.

"Maybe I'll join you," she said, turning around. She was going back to her room to change.

"No!" Jackson commanded, the order accidentally coming out harsher than he intended it. Lisa patiently waited for him to explain himself, her eyes wide and her brows lifted. "I mean," he began again, "it might not be a good idea given that…uh…the way things are." Lisa's silent alarm was triggered when Jackson stumbled for words. He seldom struggled to find the right thing to say, regardless of how it sounded when he said it.

"'_The way things are_,'" she repeated pointedly. He nodded, again lifting his arm to wipe his forehead. "And how are things, Jackson?" she asked, her mood turning a shade darker. "Am I now supposed to get your approval before I do anything?"

Jackson didn't dare speak until he could think this situation through thoroughly. Lisa's arms were now crossed and she was giving him a look that clearly communicated to him that he was in the dog house, or at least the fake dog house that fake wives put their fake husbands in when they were irked—not fake irked, but _really_ irked—at them.

"No?" he stated, but his statement sounded like a question.

Lisa's lips parted and became O shaped. "You're _asking_ me?" She took a few steps closer to him. "Okay, something's definitely wrong and it's not with me. What's going on?"

"Nothing," he denied, calling on his best customer service skills. He was off his game and he needed to recover his professional composure. Everything he had been doing with Lisa for months was wrong—the sex, the affection, the comfort, the companionship, the love… He was not able to carry the dual burdens of both light and dark. There was only room for one and if he tried to hold both, he would burn.

"Then why can't I train with you?"

"It's late," he said smoothly.

"But you can do it and it's late."

"I couldn't sleep."

"I thought you couldn't concentrate…?"

He couldn't remember if he had used that excuse or if Lisa was trying to trap him. He rolled with it just in case. "That too."

"What's really going on?"

Jackson huffed, making an outward show of his annoyance at this whole charade. "You want to know what's going on?" Lisa nodded. "I don't think you should be working out given how things are right now."

"Because of us?"

"It's not just us anymore. No matter what decision we make…_you _make," he corrected. Lisa's eyes squinted as she attempted to keep up with his sudden bout of insanity. "You should just take it easy."

"Why?"

He sighed loudly and dropped his head. She was calling him out and he had no choice. "I know, Leese." She shrugged, silently telling him she had no clue where he was going with this. "I know you've been keeping a secret from me." Lisa's mouth suddenly dried and she licked her lips nervously. "I know you're pregnant."

Of all the things Jackson had ever said to her, that one took the prize for the most unexpected. "I'm _what_?" She chuckled for a moment, more out of shock and amusement than anything else. "Where the hell would you get an idiotic idea like that? Wait…you were listening?" she accused, again crossing her arms authoritatively. That notion of this being a fake marriage was out the window. This was a real marriage because Lisa was the perfect irate wife. She had even mastered the art of making a vein in her forehead throb on cue.

"I swear, I wasn't," he said, holding up his gloved hands in innocence.

"Then how did you—"

"Frank heard Anna helping you with the morning sickness," he confessed. Jackson put his right glove to his mouth and used his teeth to undo the Velcro and ties. He fiddled with the large red masses for a few seconds before getting them off his hands.

"_I'm not pregnant_," Lisa emphasized. "I was sick, that's all."

"The mood swings?" he quizzed, throwing aside the boxing gloves.

She gave him a dirty look. "I'm a woman. You'll get over it."

"The weird cravings? The bell pepper?"

"I've always liked them. I also order pepperoni on grilled chicken sandwiches."

It was Jackson's turn to make a face.

"The sudden seduction?"

"We've grown beyond just having sex." What she couldn't say directly was that she wanted to make love to him, but she was positive that making love was not something he did. There was no love within him, not because he was as cold as she had always believed, but because he didn't know how to find that lost part of himself or how to feel it.

"The weight gain? The new diet?"

"Are you saying I'm fat?" she yelled angrily. Jackson again had a deer caught in the headlights expression, but her brilliant smile at his expense relaxed him as he realized that she was making a joke—in poor taste, but a joke regardless. "No, seriously, I just wanted to be healthy again. I just wanted to change things up and maybe…I don't know. Maybe I could look less ugly on the inside and outside if I changed my lifestyle some."

Jackson moved closer to her and put his fingers on her chin to tilt her face toward him. "You claim to trust me…"

"I do," she responded without hesitation.

"If you honestly trust me, you would believe me when I say that you are perfect, inside and out." His fingers slipped away from her chin and started to caress her face as if he were tracing an art masterpiece that was forbidden to touch despite the instinctive compulsion to worship it.

Lisa didn't like knowing that Jackson considered her so superior to ordinary people. He put her in a league by herself, a level of humanity that was beyond his or anyone else's influence or impact. The worst part was that he believed it as a fundamental fact, the foundation upon which his current life was built. He had created his own religion centered on her, and she was is pedestal-occupying deity. She wasn't sure when she had reached such a high status, but she had a feeling it was when he was observing her for eight weeks before the flight. That was the only way she could explain his psychotic breakdown after they had landed.

When a man believes in a god of his own creation and that god is revealed to be merely human before the man's very eyes, there's apparently no way to react except to violently crumble. It's easy for a man to worship a god in contented harmony when things go according to plan, but when things cease to be as expected, the relationship between man and god will inevitably breakdown. What would happen if she made a mistake and proved that she wasn't as great as he perceived her to be? What would happen when he discovered that she was not a god and was unworthy of his worship? There was a reason that no one ever heard about a woman living happily ever after with her stalker.

The pressure of such adoration was impossible to shoulder, but she had no choice. She loved him.

* * *

"Jackson?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you awake?"

"I think I will be for the next week," he deadpanned.

Lisa rolled over and snuggled up against his back.

"What if I had been pregnant?"

"That's irrelevant now."

"No, it's not," she persisted. She slid her arm underneath his so that she could rest her hand upon his chest. She draped her leg over his. "It's a valid question."

"'What if' is never a valid question."

"It may not be valid, but it's definitely important. What if…?" she urged him again.

"I don't see how we could have allowed the pregnancy to continue," he answered honestly. He was detached in a way she hadn't seen from him in months. It was a regression that contradicted all of the progress he—_they_—had made.

"You would make me have an abortion," she reiterated in plain English.

He hated hearing her say that he would force her to do anything. He was not his father and she was not his mother. History would not repeat itself. He was a different breed of monster, but even he had boundaries.

"I would have presented the facts to you and you would have chosen it. It would be our only option." The Manager was indeed in the bed with her. Chill bumps appeared on her arm and the back of her neck as he spoke to her like a computer crunching numbers for probability statistics. An abortion made perfect sense to Lisa, but she didn't know if she could have gone through with it. She didn't know if a mother could sacrifice her child for its own sake without even giving it a chance. She was grateful that she wasn't in that situation.

"What if—"

"There you go again with the 'What if'—"

"No, listen! What if things were real? Normal? If we were just an ordinary couple? What if we could have a happy ending and we didn't have a care in the world? Would you want a baby?"

His mind mentally replayed the words: _a baby_. Until now, it had been "a child" or "the pregnancy," but now the illustration of a helpless, tiny, precious infant appeared in his mind's eye and it made him hesitate. Lisa had that tone in her voice, that higher-pitched, distinctively emotional female voice that showed him all the cards she held in her hand. She had given this some thought since the topic first presented itself. Jackson swallowed hard and used all of his willpower to remain perfectly still and in control of his pulse. He had considered the fantasy once or twice in his early years, but it had been a fleeting delusion that had ended in screaming and bloodshed, the sound of gunfire emptying out of a revolver, sealing the scenario he stored in the box buried in the back of his mind labeled "do not open, not even in the event of an emergency."

"It's a good thing we won't have to worry about that. We'll never be a normal couple."

* * *

**May, 2012**

Since the irrational pregnancy scare, Jackson had returned to some of his bad habits. He was sometimes a little cold with Lisa, but she would thaw him out and make him forget why he wanted to distance himself in the first place. He lost himself in his research during the day and those studies had drifted from the imposing dining room wall and onto his iPad. Lisa trusted him and didn't pressure him to disclose what leads he had decided to follow even when part of him wished she would draw him back to her side. He returned to his usual behaviors, the characteristics and traits that protected and served him for almost all of his life, yet he found himself wanting Lisa to pull him out of that funk and restore him to the progress he had been making. For the most part, she did latch on to him with a life preserver, dragging him safely back to the boat, but he wasn't sure if it was the right thing for either of them. Sometimes when someone falls overboard, it's for the best that they remain lost at sea.

His nighttime run had become a nightly event that he performed faithfully at 1 a.m. Jackson would sneak out of bed, careful not to wake Lisa, and he would dress in black, don his hood on his head, and charge at full speed until he saw flecks of light in his vision and his lungs burned. Images ranging from his brutalized mother's corpse to Lisa's body bouncing contortedly down the stairs of her father's house tormented him with every stride that he pounded into the ground.

* * *

Lisa rolled over and stretched out her arm. When the unoccupied, wrinkled sheets were all she could find with her searching hand, she exhaled and muttered, "Not again." She stumbled out of bed and put on her black underwear and Jackson's navy blue t-shirt. She scratched her fingers through her hair, shuffling her bedhead curls so they would appear a little less scary. No one would see her walking around the house this time of night, but she would know.

She descended the stairs in the almost pitch black house from memory. She didn't want to turn on any lights when they weren't needed. The nights when she knew she was alone were the hardest for her because she was more attuned to her susceptibility in the empty house. Jackson never ventured farther away than what they called a block in their predominantly uninhabited neighborhood, but it still bothered her.

She retrieved a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water from the kitchen tap. They were far enough out of the city limits to be required to have their own private well since city water was not an option and she was glad for it. Lisa hated city water because no matter what city it was, the water was so filled with additives and pollution that it could hardly be considered water at all. At least their well water was clean and fresh.

She took a large sip and stared out the small kitchen window as she wondered where Jackson was amid the dark shadows outside.

* * *

Jackson had just rounded the corner and was running on the concrete sidewalk again after his detour through the woods. As he neared Frank and Anna's place, he could see the front door of his own house open. Jackson slowed to a stop and observed the facts before taking action. Surely the dark outline was Lisa looking around for him. He could barely make out Lisa standing in front of the kitchen window and a man closing in behind her.

Jackson darted for the house.

* * *

Lisa heard the front door close, but it wasn't followed by the sounds of the locks clicking into position. He must have stopped for a few minutes with the intention of going back out. It was only 1:12 a.m. He was probably only on his first, maybe second lap. His soft footfall came up behind her as she took another drink of water. As she swallowed, she saw a blurry gray reflection taking shape in the window before her. She fearfully dropped the glass, shattering it into a million hopeless pieces that mirrored her own life at that moment.

A gun was cocked behind her head. "I know who you are, Lisa Reisert."

She remained still, staring forward at the reflected figure revealed in the window. "Frank?" she gasped.

* * *

**TBC…**

* * *

**Author's Note 1: ** I want to thank all of the readers for sticking with this story. Thank you to all of the reviewers: the regulars, the one-timers, and the guests. I cannot express my appreciation for you enough.

**Author's Note 2:** My Real Life schedule is changing, so that means my fan fiction schedule will have to change. My hope is that I can update once a week on Saturday night into Sunday morning. Worst case scenario, I may have to stretch out updates to every two weeks at that time. I want to avoid that if possible, so I will do everything in my power to make sure I can provide you with your weekly fic fix.


	12. Ch 11: A Hostage and a Situation

**Chapter 11: A Hostage and a Situation**

* * *

**May, 2012**

"Frank!" Anna yelled for the fifth time. It amazed her how Frank's hearing was selective, especially after she had nagged him for months to do a simple chore.

"What?" he asked innocently when he strolled into their greenhouse. He had been a few feet away in his workshop tinkering with his newly acquired vintage Dodge when her nasal barking finally got on his nerves enough that he couldn't ignore her anymore.

"Did you ever tie up the old newspapers to recycle?"

They both knew the answer was "no," yet she insisted upon voicing her query as if giving him the benefit of the doubt. Marriage was a patronizing hell filled with ridiculous expectations and inconsiderate demands, yet he wouldn't trade all of his years with Anna for anything.

"Working on it now, _honey_," he said sweetly, his lips tight and his eyes steely.

"Thank you, _dear_," she replied haughtily, returning her attention to her miniature yellow roses.

Frank entered the house, muttering all the way, and headed straight for the broom closet. He grabbed a handful of papers and started stacking them neatly across the kitchen counter. Once he had all of the newspapers divided into reasonable-sized stacks, he retrieved the string and scissors and began tying them into easy to handle bunches. He was on his third stack when the cover of the paper caught his attention. It was from July of the previous year.

Elise and Jack were on the cover, except it had "Fugitive and Former Victim Still Missing" as a headline, and a blurb below the title said that "Authorities Won't Confirm If Disappearances Are Related." It wasn't Jack and Elise, though. It was Jackson Rippner and Lisa Reisert. Frank felt like a moron. _That_ was why Elise—_Lisa_—had looked so familiar to him. He had seen her face plastered everywhere, the same for Rippner, yet he hadn't recognized them when they stood before him, ate at his table, visited with his wife, and laughed over stories about his kids.

Frank flipped the newspaper upside down and tied that stack as well as the other remaining stacks.

* * *

Anna drifted off while Frank, still sitting upright in bed next to her with a book in hand and the small bedside lamp glowing dimly, watched her a few moments to ensure that she was indeed asleep. He closed his book and put it on the table before easing out of bed and turning off the light.

He went inside their small office adjacent to the living room and turned on the computer. He retrieved every article he could find about Lisa Reisert and Jackson Rippner dating back to 2005 when they had first met on the infamous Fresh Air Red Eye flight. He merely glanced over the tabloid reports about Lisa from late 2005 to just last year, but he drowned himself in the most up-to-date information about Jackson Rippner's prison escape and his subsequent kidnapping of Lisa last year. Eventually the news outlets had become bored with the story and stopped reporting on it within a few months of her unconfirmed abduction. Now there was nothing being written about them. It was as if the world had forgotten that a terrorist had escaped prison and captured his former hostage. They were yesterday's news and the world had moved on, careless to whatever horrors were in store for Rippner's victim.

Frank considered himself a smart man and a good cop, but he beat himself up when he thought about the times that he had spent with Jack—Jackson Rippner—as friends. They had laughed together, shared stories, worked on their cars, and bonded in a uniquely male way. They were almost like a father and son at times, and Frank had often gotten the impression that it was something Rippner seemed to appreciate and maybe even value.

As a cop, Frank would become frustrated when witnesses couldn't identify a perpetrator, or when a spouse or lover came forward and admitted that the person they had shared a bed with for years was a wanted felon whose face had been splashed over television screens, newspapers, and even Post Offices, yet they had never even realized it. He thought it was stupidity and general laziness, but now that he was on that end after failing to recognize two of the most prominently seen faces in recent years, he was a little more sympathetic to the role emotions played on one's ability to see clearly and judge accurately.

Frank poured himself a cup of coffee and pulled up a chair next to the front window. He was going to stakeout the "Roberts' residence" since that was what any good cop would do.

* * *

After a week of watching the house, Frank noticed that Jackson was in the habit of going for a run around 1 a.m. He was never absent for a set length, but Frank mentally noted that Jackson was gone for an absolute minimum of thirty minutes at a time and never less.

Lisa was a hostage and Frank was a cop. If he stood by and let Rippner keep her trapped, doing God knows what to her, he would be a failure to Lisa, the Badge, and himself. She had seemed perfectly normal to him what few times they had been alone together, and when they were all together as a group, everything had seemed picture perfect. Perhaps that should have been the trigger for the alarm in Frank's head: there was no such thing as the perfect couple. Lisa did seem depressed and a little odd at times, and there was that pregnancy misunderstanding a few weeks ago that still didn't sit right with him. The possibility that Rippner was sexually assaulting Lisa behind closed doors just a few hundred feet away made Frank want to call for back-up and storm the place. Logic, however, told him that there was one way for Lisa to come out of this with little risk and that was for Frank to remove her from the scene himself when Jackson was not there to interfere. If he could infiltrate the house and get Lisa out, he could then call for back-up and catch Rippner just as he returned from his nightly run. And all would be right with the world.

* * *

Frank held the end of the small flashlight in his mouth like a cigar as his fingers expertly controlled the two tools he had inserted into the front door's lock. In a matter of seconds, he had opened the door and entered into the dark house undetected, his flashlight off and back in his pocket with his lock-picking tool kit. He softly shut the door, his palms pressing it closed with only the faintest of clicks echoing in the hollow room. Frank stood still a few moments so his eyes could adjust, and when his vision adapted, he realized that the living room he had seen only from a blocked view at the door was an empty, barren room. There were no decorations and only the minimal amount of furniture possible for a functional household. He looked beyond the living room and saw the kitchen. Lisa stood at the window, sipping water by the sink.

Frank wasn't sure of her possible reaction. If she was afraid of Rippner, she could lash out at anyone who attempted to rescue her because she would be fearful of failure and its ramifications. She could have a case of Stockholm Syndrome and become angry at anyone who dared to oppose her forceful lover. Frank drew his gun, opting to go for the safe route. As an officer, he knew that the protocol in this situation would call for him to take her in as calmly as possible for the safety of all concerned and then he would sort it out later.

Her glass shattered on the floor. He cocked his gun behind her head. "I know who you are, Lisa Reisert," he stated as forwardly as possible.

She remained still, staring forward at the reflected figure revealed in the window. "Frank?" she gasped.

"Turn around slowly, hands in the air," he instructed. "Where's Rippner?"

Lisa did as told. "Probably jogging," she answered honestly. "Frank, you need to leave." Her neutral voice was tainted with a twinge of urgency.

"I can't do that without you."

Lisa scoffed at his textbook Boy Scout behavior. "Frank, you _really_, _really_ need to leave. Right now. _Leave_." With her hands still raised in surrender, Lisa took a brave step forward to test his resolve. Frank inched back and he wasn't sure why. He wasn't afraid of Lisa—she was harmless enough. Something in him, his instincts as a man perhaps, told him not to intimidate her or he would lose her support in this. "Jackson will be back any minute now."

"And he'll kill me?"

"He's not a killer."

"He _has_ killed."

Lisa's lips curled into a cold grin that was enhanced by the disheartened stillness of her wide eyes. Something about her expression communicated to him that it was meant more for her own self-reflection than as a threat to him. Frank's gut warned him that things were about to take an unexpected turn that neither he nor Lisa would like.

"So have I."

Lisa knocked the gun from Frank's hand and kicked him square in the chest. Frank grunted as he slammed into the kitchen wall opposite the window. Lisa lunged for the gun on the floor, but Frank came up behind her and trapped her in his strong arms. Because he was considerably larger, his grip surrounded her like a python. She could tell he wasn't going to fight her very much since she was the innocent hostage he wanted to save, so she would have the advantage because there was no reason in the world that she wouldn't defend herself and Jackson. She rammed her head back into his enough to disorient him into releasing her.

Lisa dove for the gun and when she snatched it, she rolled onto her back and aimed up at Frank just in time to see an airborne Jackson tackle him from the side. He wasn't big enough to physically overpower the older man, but he was smart enough to let his brain dictate his body's actions. Jackson wrapped his arms around Frank's throat and used his deadweight to drop the intruder onto his back. Frank thrashed. He reached up and punched Jackson in the face hard enough to send blood flying, a fact Lisa knew because she could hear the wet punch rather than see the spray of life fluid that she knew was splattered around the room. He fell flat next to his former friend. Frank was on his feet first. He picked up Jackson by his collar and half-threw, half-shoved him several feet away into the living room.

Lisa held the gun at Frank, but even after she got the opportunity for a clear shot, she couldn't make herself take it. This was Frank Keller, their friend and neighbor. He was a husband and father. He was a cop. He was doing the right thing. She couldn't pull the trigger.

Frank wheeled around and jerked the gun from Lisa's hand. She thought her fingers were going to be ripped off in the process. He backhanded her across the cheek and lip, making her see stars dance across the shaking, spinning room. He aimed at her and took a bruising claim on her arm. She could feel each of his fingers imprinting in her skin.

"We're getting out of here," he decided on her behalf while holding her at gunpoint. Jackson was finding his footing when Frank pointed the gun at him. Lisa used her free hand to yet again slap the gun back to the floor. She punched Frank in the eye and she was pretty sure her hand had been hurt worse than his face in the process. He let go of her and she kicked him in the groin. When he doubled over, she clutched his shirt collar and smashed his head into her knee before high kicking his head back upright. He was still standing, but it was more due to luck than his strength.

Frank was dazed and virtually unresponsive when Jackson, unrecognizably blood-soaked, pounded his fist into Frank's face repeatedly, with feverish ferocity and disregard for basic human dignity as he held him in place. Jackson wasn't fighting Frank. He was taking out aggression that he had built up for years and it turned Lisa's stomach. It was a level of violence that she never knew existed in Jackson and it opened her eyes. He was right when he said that she didn't know him at all. This was the man who had her body and her heart. She felt something for him. She couldn't call it love just yet, but the warmth that came with such need was there. Now, that warmth was starting to blow away in the cold night breeze of the desert where she lived with him. He loved her. She had known it from the start of their stay together, but she had to ignore it so that it could grow from being an ugly rag weed into a beautiful white rose as Jackson learned how to define love, and more importantly, how to feel and share it. Whatever stage of growth his version of "love" was at during this incident, their symbolic flower was covered in Frank's blood. She was relieved when Jackson gave up hammering Frank's face with his fists and instead reached up to yank him to the ground by his neck.

"Chair," Jackson ordered, dragging Frank's motionless form into the dining room. A slippery trail of red stained the living room's carpet and the kitchen's hard tiles. Jackson dropped him onto the floor and moved the dining room table as close to the marked wall as possible. He would need the space for what he was about to do. Lisa sat the chair down where the table had been seconds earlier. Jackson grunted as he lifted up Frank's limp body and released him into the seat. He removed the handcuffs from Frank's belt and cuffed his wrists behind his back, attaching him to the chair in the process.

Frank started to stir, moaning as he regained his senses. Lisa collected the retired cop's elusive gun and checked the chamber before taking aim at Frank. Frank became fully aware of his surroundings by the time Jackson exited the kitchen with a large meat chopping knife. The hostage was bruised and swollen after being beaten less than a minute earlier, and the blood on his face came from his nose, the inside of his lip where his tooth had cut into the soft tissue, and the marks of Jackson's bleeding knuckles.

"I really wish you hadn't come here tonight," Jackson declared professionally. Blood was smeared all over his face and it was dripping onto his shirt, but he didn't stop it. He bled from his lips and nose, and Lisa thought she could see where his eye had become red with blood as well. He looked like a character from a horror movie and Lisa was more scared of seeing him this way than she was afraid for his health. He looked terrifying and on top of that, he was in Manager Mode. Other than in the occasional fleeting moment here and there, she had not heard that voice or seen that body language in months.

"Who sent you?" Jackson was propped against the table, his arms loosely crossed and his fist casually gripping the knife as his fingers toyed with the weight of the weapon.

Frank laughed. "I'm a cop, you stupid son of a bitch. I came to save the girl."

"Without backup? And _I'm_ the 'stupid son of a bitch?'" Frank snorted and shook his head wearily as Jackson resumed his interrogation. "Forgive me if I'm having trouble believing your pathetic excuse. We've been living here for over half a year and you're just now coming to rescue the damsel in distress?"

"Yeah, I'm late coming to the party. I _knew_ I recognized her," Frank boasted, addressing Jackson and completely ignoring Lisa's presence. "I just didn't put two and two together. I came for her tonight when you went jogging, but I didn't know she would be so brainwashed." Lisa huffed, reminding the two men she was in the room.

She marched a few feet forward to stand just a little in front of Jackson. "I'm not brainwashed. If I were, I wouldn't have tried to save you." Jackson looked at Lisa for the first time since the brawl and he was sickened by the red and purple marring her face.

He reached out to her, warily touching the swelled area where her cheek and mouth met. She winced when he made contact with the small cut at the side of her lips. The red print of a backhand covered the entire side of her face from her mouth to her eye.

"You hurt her," Jackson told Frank as he gently stroked Lisa's face and gazed upon her with regret for his failure to defend her. Frank didn't know how to interpret the intimate scene before him. Lisa's eyes were closed and her head rested heavily in Jackson's hand. He pulled away and she returned to her place behind him to the side. "By executing this half-assed rescue plan of yours, you've endangered her life. I'm not happy with that, Frank."

"I'm so sorry to hear it," Frank gasped sardonically.

The back of Jackson's fist impacted with Frank's head and Lisa heard bone meet bone as a pop sounded in the air. "Who did you tell about us?"

Frank twisted his jaw, wincing as he attempted to realign the structure of his lower face. He glared in response, making no effort to answer the question. He was practicing his right to remain silent and Jackson had no patience for it.

"You don't have to talk. In fact, I'd prefer if you didn't talk. I don't like having to deal with moral dilemmas when there are circumstances as clear-cut as these. I can only assume you've told people about us. That's not good. You've endangered Lisa and _that's really not good_."

"I haven't endangered her any worse than you have."

"You think I'm the threat?" Jackson posed incredulously. "I broke out of prison to save her. I've been guarding her and working beside her for months trying to save both our lives. You've fucked that up for us."

"Gee, sorry."

"Your sarcasm isn't as amusing as you think it is because you've put me in a corner and now I have to make a decision that will affect all of us. You're making me choose: I can trust you and let you live so you can inevitably betray my trust and get all of us killed, or I can kill you now and focus my efforts on getting Lisa to safety."

Frank chuckled and shook his head. He glanced at Lisa and was shocked to see the serious expression on her face. She was strong and stoic. She trusted Jackson Rippner and he couldn't fathom why. Something was going on here, something more than fear, manipulation, or even Stockholm Syndrome.

"But you see, Frank, here's the problem," Jackson continued. "I'm not a killer. I'm a Manager. I arrange the dominos to fall in a way that pleases my customers. Although I am currently between professional jobs, I find myself falling back on old instincts because you are making me choose between you and Lisa. Believe me when I say that there is no choice. I choose Lisa. I will always choose Lisa. And now I have to kill you so I _can_ choose Lisa."

Lisa's heart quickened when she heard Jackson say that. Part of her was over the moon at the thought of Jackson putting her first and foremost before anything, but the other part of her was chilled to the bone at the notion of being his motivation for murder. He would kill, he would take another life, and it would be in her name. The downside of being a god in his twisted eyes was starting to reveal itself in the worst way.

Even in Jackson's most insane moments at her father's house, his violence had been more reactive than proactive. Now, he was behaving in a way that showed a strategically devised plan to kill someone. When he had reacted in her father's house, it was out of a sense of emotional confusion, the spontaneous and irrational response to her acting against his plan, but at this moment, Jackson was emotionally invested in his decisions. Lisa could only reason that a Jackson without love, or whatever such an emotion was to him, was a Jackson who had no passion for fatal aggression. However, a Jackson with love, a Jackson who cared for someone and was cared about in return, that was a man who was driven by his confusing emotions to the point that he lost all objectivity and respect for his career as a non-violent professional. He could have subdued Frank and escaped cleanly and professionally, but instead he vented his issues by connecting fist to face in a rage. When Jackson started opening his almost dead heart to one emotion, to love, then he opened it to all emotions, including bloodlust in the name of love.

Frank studied Lisa's reaction and saw her light up in pride when she realized that Jackson had chosen her, but he noticed her sway on her feet when she comprehended the repercussions of that unwavering loyalty. She was in love with Jackson and he was in love with her, and this sick version of Bonnie and Clyde would consummate their love over his dead body in the most literal sense.

"I didn't tell anyone," Frank replied earnestly. "I was going to report everything after the fact. I know a woman in the private sector who has FBI connections. I was going to get her to help me out."

Jackson directed his attention to his knife for the first time since their conversation had started. "I'm having difficulty believing that." He wiped it on his shirt, polishing off some imaginary smear from the blade.

"I swear, I only had good intentions." He wasn't groveling or pleading. He was explaining. Even when Frank beheld his impending death, he had dignity.

"I don't doubt it. You're a good man. I really like you," Jackson conceded. "But you're making me choose and it's not even a choice I have to consider."

Frank swallowed hard. This Jackson was far colder and much more detached than the Jack he had been friends with all this time. This man was as inhuman as his pale blue eyes, one of which was soaked in red. He had the analytical keenness of a cyborg, Frank observed.

"Lisa, go upstairs," Jackson commanded, his voice still calm and collected. He spoke as if he were brokering a deal and polite sternness would be rewarded with success.

Lisa disarmed the gun. She set the separated components on the dining room table and moved closer to Jackson. Frank tuned her out and focused on the unreadable blobs of ink that littered all the walls of the dining room. He saw photos and other artifacts mixed in amid the writing and he couldn't imagine what purpose any of it served. When he looked back to Lisa and Jackson, she was whispering with frantic determination. They were trying to speak out of earshot of the hostage, but it wasn't working as they both elevated their hushed voices with each line of argument.

"No," Jackson said, finally choosing to interrupt her. "I won't take the chance that they found out about us. I can't, Leese."

"You can't do this—"

"I have no choice."

"There's always a choice."

"Not where you're concerned."

"Don't put this on me."

"I'm not. It's our only—"

"Don't do this, Jackson. Please don't do this. He's our friend—"

"He's a liability."

"Then don't do it to yourself. You're not a killer."

"That's where you're wrong. Never forget the monster that I am," Jackson sneered. "Now go upstairs, Lisa." He only called her by her given name when he was serious about something. It was a rare occurrence.

"I don't think I can forgive you for this," she admitted with minimal struggle, the words coming out before her mind accepted them.

"I hope you don't. The Lisa I know would despise me for it and I wouldn't have her any other way."

Lisa regarded Frank with remorse. "I'm so sorry," she breathed. He remained silent. "I warned you. I told you to leave." She knew that he had signed his death warrant the instant he entered their house uninvited. Lisa understood that he had to die because the only way they could trust him to remain silent was if he were in fact silenced permanently. She wasn't going to hand herself and Jackson over to the Company after all this time, after all these years. She was no better than Jackson. She was, at this very moment, becoming a murderer. It was their lives or Frank's. There was no choice.

"Why wouldn't you come with me?" Frank unexpectedly wondered aloud. Lisa and Jackson were both surprised by his choice of last words. "Satisfy my curiosity. I'm gonna die, after all."

Lisa turned her head toward Jackson, but her eyes remained downcast. The air seemed suffocating and humid in the house, and the darkness of the downstairs rooms added a sense of claustrophobia to the mix. Jackson was as still as a statue. He was a monster soaked in blood and he was about to bathe in more. He was signing over the last little part of his soul just after he had started rediscovering it. He was doing it all for her. Jackson was the only one who could understand her and she was the only one who could understand him. Fate had sealed their destinies long ago, and upon realizing her family's connection to the Company, she accepted that their lives were intertwined far before Fresh Air sold the Company's pre-arranged seats to them on the same row for the Red Eye flight to Miami.

"I belong with him."

Everyone was silent before Lisa sniffed a soft sob. "It's okay, Lisa. Go upstairs," Frank directed.

She didn't move. "Lisa, go upstairs," Jackson demanded, his voice becoming a little harder.

Her logical mind agreed with Jackson. They had no choice. Frank was a liability and they couldn't take the chance that he had or would betray them.

Lisa ran from the room and didn't look back.

* * *

Lisa staggered up the stairs like a zombie. When she closed the door to her dark bedroom, a hysterical rush of panicked tears shook through her body, completely disorienting her and rendering her into a useless mass quivering on the floor. Frank was going to die. She was murdering Frank right now from where she rocked back and forth on the floor, sobbing manically. She should have had the nerve to do it herself rather than let Jackson take the lead and butcher an innocent man on her behalf, but she was once again a little girl whose daddy-figure had come to the rescue, doing the things that she should be able to handle for herself.

She half-crawled a few feet until she found her footing and she stumbled toward her closet. She blindly reached for the back until her fingers made contact with a familiar canvas material: her travel bag. This was the bag that she had kept packed at all times over the course of six years, and now as she tugged it loose from where it had been hidden away, she realized that it was empty. Lisa no longer kept her bag packed.

Tears stopped coming and instead her face turned ghostly gray, contorted in a choked sob that prohibited her from breathing. She slid down the wall beside her closet, her bag pulled into her arms like a fluffy teddy bear whose presence would somehow make everything okay. She cuddled her empty bag closely, clutching it like a lifeline. She had no clue when life with Jackson had become so normal and safe that she had stopped being prepared. Lisa knew, _she knew_, that she had to keep herself prepared at all times in case the Company found them, in case the law found them, in case…in case Jackson became a threat again. She was as ashamed of herself for being negligent on the job as she was for trusting Jackson…and almost as ashamed as she was for letting Frank die.

Was Frank dead? How long had it been? A minute? An hour? Frank was both alive and dead at this very moment in time.

Lisa fell onto her side, her bare legs automatically tucking under her chin. She was still dressed in just Jackson's shirt and her underwear, but now she wore cuts, bruises, and blood as accessories. As she lay in the fetal position, she realized what had happened. The monster she had been evolving into for almost seven years, the monster that had been gestating all that time, that monster had finally been born. Lisa was now a new creature in a new world and she didn't like it one bit.

* * *

Lisa awoke to sore, stiff muscles. She attempted to pull herself out of her rigid position on the floor next to the closet, but when she moved, a miniscule beam of morning light from the small window across the room managed to find her. It burned her skin as if she were a vampire.

She let go of the empty travel bag and pushed it aside. Her fingers came into contact with moisture on the material and she could only assume it was tears, snot, or drool. Monsters were disgusting creatures.

She used the wall to balance herself as she stood and remained stationary for a minute. Jackson had never come to get her. Had he left? Had he been captured? Had Frank gotten lose and killed him? Lisa yanked a pair of black cargo pants out of the closet and she shoved them on quickly while forcing her feet into an equally practical pair of black boots. She retrieved the gun she kept in her bedside table drawer and made her way downstairs. She was prepared to practice fight or flight, whichever the situation may call for.

Lisa rounded the corner from the stairs to the kitchen. Jackson was scrubbing something in the sink. A blood-drenched dishtowel was on the counter next to him. Was this how he had found his father after his mother's murder? Her eyes quickly scanned the kitchen and dining room. Blood. Was. Everywhere.

"Oh my God…"

* * *

**Five Hours Earlier**

Everyone was silent before Lisa sniffed a soft sob. "It's okay, Lisa. Go upstairs," Frank directed.

She didn't move. "Lisa, go upstairs," Jackson demanded, his voice becoming a little harder.

When Jackson heard the barely perceptible snap of Lisa's door shutting, he turned back to Frank.

"So, how are we doing this?" Frank asked informally. Jackson couldn't read Frank. He was somewhere between posturing, maintaining a strong front, and plotting his escape. He was too much of a variable for Jackson's taste.

"I've always been partial to knives," Jackson admitted.

"Not man enough for a gun?"

Jackson snickered. "Too much of a man for a gun, actually," he corrected. "Besides, I think I've outgrown projectile weapons."

Frank tiled his head, pillowing the side of his face against his own shoulder. "Lisa will never forgive you," he reminded Jackson.

"Thank you, Dr. Phil." After he made the quip, a mental image invaded Jackson's mind. He saw Lisa at her father's house, sitting around the Christmas tree with the remainder of her family. Jackson was just a distant memory to her. She unwrapped her gift and it was Dr. Phil's newest book called _Murderers Can't Love You Like Abusive Stalkers Can_. Jackson shook his head, physically trying to force the nightmarish fantasy from his brain. He glared at Frank. "We had a good thing. We were hidden, alone, and safe. And you ruined it."

Frank lifted his head. "You think playing house with your prisoner is normal? Safe?" he inquired disbelievingly.

Jackson paced around him slowly, intently. "We stopped faking a long time ago."

The hostage shook his head in dry amusement. "She has total freedom, huh? She goes to the mall and shops. She comes home and you guys have dinner with us, your neighbors. You do your chores. You flirt and fondle when you walk by each other. She yells when you leave the toilet seat up and you berate her for not folding your laundry like you want it. You drink and fight and fuck. She screams only your name and she has your flesh underneath her nails before she falls asleep, and then in the morning, she looks you in the eye and says, 'I love you.' Is that it? Is that what you two do that's so normal?"

Jackson came to a stop behind Frank. The captive didn't even bother trying to twist around to see his captor.

Frank wasn't finished. "You aren't normal. You're backwards. You're sick. You try to make her see you as something different—and maybe she does—but at the end of the day, she's still the same kidnapped girl you've attempted to destroy twice and you're still the same fucked up son of a bitch who gets off on possessing her. Anna told me that she thought something was off with your relationship. She thought you were abusive to Lisa and I have to admit in hindsight, I saw it from the start." Jackson cringed and his jaw popped as it tensed. "You are her puppet master and this show, this sham you think is a happy ending for you two is nothing more than you controlling her and using her to help you masturbate with her helpless body!"

"You're trying to distract me. It won't work," Jackson assured him. As he stood in front of his hostage, Jackson appeared solid, confident, and resolute, but inside he felt the violent waves of a tumultuous sea. "Lisa and I have an understanding. We don't delude ourselves one way or another. We know who and what we are, and we know what this is."

Frank squinted his eyes suspiciously. "_Do you_?" he hissed.

Jackson resisted the urge to end Frank's life at that very moment because when he killed him, he wanted it to be part of the job, not out of emotional resentment. He tried to close his mind, to keep Frank from infiltrating his head and navigating him in the wrong direction, but it was difficult to do given that Jackson couldn't stop seeing Lisa's smirk when she would steal glances at him while watching a movie, feeling the suppleness of her peach-scented flesh writhing in pleasure beneath his body, hearing her giggle when he would sneak up on her and tickle her sides. Lisa was real, but more importantly, what he had with Lisa—whatever it was—_it was real_.

Jackson leaned against the dining room table and fixed his attention on his knife, once again polishing it to shine even brighter. "What happens after?" Jackson cocked an eyebrow as he considered Frank's question. "I assume you'll dump my body. Then what?"

"We will secure this place, dump your body en route, and be on our way to another safe house."

"My wife?" Frank questioned. For the first time since all of this began, Frank seemed genuinely upset. Tears were starting to collect in his eyes and he sniffed hard as he sucked in his lower lip. Sweat was mixing with the blood on his face.

"Anna will remain unharmed as long as she is not a liability."

Frank made direct eye contact with Jackson. "I swear, God as my witness, my wife is innocent. Leave. Her. Alone."

"I give you my word, as long as she is not involved, she is safe."

"She's innocent, I swear," Frank pleaded his case.

Jackson grunted a wry laugh. He started pacing again, this time around the room rather than only around Frank. "No one's innocent. There's no such thing as innocence, only degrees of guilt."

Frank ignored the stray tear that escaped from his eye. His wife was worth that tear and millions more at no cost to his masculinity. "Is that," Frank started, his head and eyes rolling around to indicate the intricate designs on the dining room wall, "'degrees of guilt?'"

Jackson paused and thought about it. "That's one way of looking at it."

"What is it?"

Frank was stalling and Jackson wasn't an idiot. Truth be told, Jackson was grateful that Frank was delaying the inevitable. He wasn't able to think clearly and the time Frank was buying helped Jackson develop his plan slowly but surely. "It's whatever is happening to make my people want to kill Lisa and, to a lesser extent, me."

"You'll get the info out of her to save yourself and then you'll turn her over to them, won't you?"

"It crossed my mind," Jackson confessed. There were some dark moments between the time he escaped prison and the time he and Lisa had finished collecting his liquid assets that he considered buying his freedom with her. He knew it would most likely end in a double cross that would kill them both, but there were instances when he thought that paying for vengeance against her with his life was a small price for a brief second of such exquisite pleasure. Italy, however, changed everything for him. There was no going back after his heart pounded in his chest while listening to her panicked voice summoning him for help. "But now there's no doubt in my mind. Her life comes before all lives, including yours and mine."

"How do you two make heads or tails of that?"

Jackson examined the chaotic wall and a small smile tugged at his lips. Lisa had said she was sick to death of the wall and he had to admit that he shared her sentiment. "We pretty much have it memorized. We're sick of it."

"What about a fresh set of eyes? Trained eyes?"

"Yeah, let's just uncuff you so you can help out the team!" Jackson mockingly exclaimed.

"I'm serious."

"That's what makes it so funny."

Frank sighed. "I was a Beat cop for most of my career. I was used to inserting myself into the community and becoming one of them. I had to know the local gangs and their politics. I had to know who would do what _before_ it happened so I could help prevent it and maybe save lives. This isn't much different. I can get to know the players. I can offer insights you two are too blind to even see anymore. You can only stare at a word written on a page for so long before the mind stops being able to comprehend the word's meaning."

Jackson hated that things had come to this boiling point. He liked Frank; he truly valued him as the closest thing he would ever have to a friend now that Samuel was gone. He wished he could snap his fingers and life would return to normal without his pesky neighbors knowing his secret not-so-superheroic identity, but he couldn't. He wanted to trust Frank, but he couldn't. He didn't want to kill Frank, but he had to. Frank could be an asset to him if he could trust him, but that would never happen.

"I'd love to trust you, Frank, but let's be honest with each other. You broke into my house. Attempted to kidnap Lisa. Attempted to kill me. Attempted to turn us over to the local LEOs. Now you're attempting to talk your way out of all of your previous attempts so you can once again attempt something that you really shouldn't attempt. Does that about sum it up?"

"I don't trust you either, Rippner." Jackson's eyes narrowed at being referred to by his Red Eye alias. "But I want to help Lisa. Let me contact some of my friends in—"

"We don't know how deep this goes or who is connected, and you want me to trust Lisa's life in your hands? I've protected her this long and I'll keep protecting her until the day I die…if she forgives me or not. But I won't gamble with her life."

"You've gambled with her life this long. You're going to have to trust someone because you can't do this alone."

Jackson crossed his arms so that the hand holding the knife was on top. "Give me a reason to trust you."

Frank exhaled loudly, flustered at knowing he wouldn't be able to offer anything but his word. "I would betray you in a heartbeat," he told Jackson, earning an entertained look from the Manager. "But I would do whatever it takes to help save Lisa. She's innocent." Frank noticed that Jackson didn't correct his choice of words this time around because apparently, despite whatever sins Lisa knew she had committed, Jackson could only see innocence. That disturbed Frank. The devout and the dedicated were impossible adversaries.

"I still have connections around the world. If you screw me, if they find Lisa, Anna is dead. Even if I am killed, I will make arrangements so that she is taken down right in front of your very eyes. Deal?"

Frank considered his options. If Lisa was captured or killed, Anna was dead. If one lover was lost, the other was sacrificed as payment. He was taking a chance with his own life as well as that of his wife. He was making a deal with the devil.

"Deal."

Jackson gripped the knife in his fist and held it at Frank's throat, making the older man's heart stop beating for two seconds before it resumed in a painful hammering. A metallic click later, Frank felt the handcuffs loosen and Jackson backed away. Frank dropped the cuffs from his wrists and rubbed them attentively as he remained seated in the interrogation chair. Jackson stood in front of him, still holding the knife in one hand and reaching out to shake his hand with the other.

The man with good intentions shook hands with the devil holding the knife at his family's throat.

* * *

Frank accepted the cup of coffee from Jackson and was about to take a sip when he remembered the circumstances of the moment. Frank peered down at the coffee inside the black mug and then at Jackson. "If I wanted to poison you, this would have been over hours ago," Jackson promised, taking a sip of his own coffee. Frank drank a hearty mouthful and continued deciphering the wall.

"Lisa's dad," Frank began hesitantly without adding anything else to his statement.

"That's what I think," Jackson agreed. Frank looked down at the shorter man, wondering how he could have a one-sided conversation so confidently. "I suspected it when Joe shot me. He shot like a professional. At first, I thought it was all of that Don't Mess with Texas attitude," Jackson dryly joked, "but he was too cold."

"Do you think Lisa knows?"

"Remember when you thought she was pregnant?" Frank nodded. "Lisa has a nervous disposition. When she knows something, when something eats away at her, she shows it. She hadn't been acting weird until that point. I think that's around the time she figured it out."

Frank returned his attention to the wall, his eyes locking onto one complex line after another, following the different twists and turns of their connections. "He's the odd man out. Her father is Company. There has to be more than that, though."

"I've got a theory," Jackson announced.

"Care to share?"

Jackson shot him a look. "No." He had carried a very intricately-woven theory in the back of his mind for a long time, and if he wasn't going to tell Lisa, then he sure as hell wasn't going to tell Frank. He headed back for the kitchen, leaving Frank to his own studies at the wall.

Jackson dumped his coffee down the sink drain because the hard liquid was conflicting with his already heightened nerves. He noticed for the first time how covered his hands were in crusty blood. He had washed his hands after releasing Frank, but they had oozed openly and were caked in blood again. He took some Purell from the pump by the sink and soaked his hands in the almost predominantly alcohol-based substance to help kill off the chance of infection. He soaped up and scrubbed as vigorously as he could given the pain of his open wounds. He dried his hands on a paper towel since the dishtowel by the sink was solid red with blood. He then proceeded to clean his coffee mug. He could have washed it another time, but he was unsettled at the moment and needed some kind of work, however insignificant, to occupy his mind.

"Oh my God."

He turned around to find Lisa, the owner of the raw, scratchy voice, standing at the threshold of the kitchen, staring at the sight before her in horror. There was blood on the floor, walls, and counter of the stark white kitchen. She had heard the sounds of wet punches being thrown and received last night, but in the light of day, the kitchen looked like it belonged to King Leonidas after he dined in hell.

Jackson set the mug down in the sink and wiped his wet fingertips against his jogging pants. "Leese," he softly greeted, cautiously stepping closer to her. "Everything's okay now."

"Everything's okay. Now. Everything's okay _now_," she repeated, distress creeping into her voice. Her eyes were tearing up. Jackson reached out to her, but she flinched back.

"Good morning, Lisa," Frank intervened from the dining room. Lisa jumped at the unexpected voice, her head spinning toward the dining room.

Lisa's head jerked to Jackson, then to Frank, and back to Jackson. He nodded once. "Why?"

Jackson ignored her and stalked away, a predator who was bored with his current prey and was ready to relocate elsewhere. Lisa rushed to Frank and shocked herself by wrapping her arms around him, hugging the man she had fought the previous night. He patted her back. "I'm so glad you're alright," she said, pulling back from him.

"Everything's fine. We came to an agreement."

"Our friendship is stronger. I trust him," Jackson clarified as he looked at the wall rather than Lisa and Frank.

Frank covered his surprise well and smiled at Lisa, content to maintain the charade for her sake. Lisa, however, was not as easily fooled as either man would have liked to believe. "What happened?" she pressed.

"We talked. He won me over and I'm going to help."

Lisa's narrowed eyes were unblinking as she searched for the truth of the matter in Frank's eyes. "You're lying," she accused. "Jackson is a Manager. He does business, not free consultations. What did he do to you?"

Across the room, Jackson acknowledged the hushed conversation. "I'm going to kill Anna if he turns us over," he bluntly affirmed.

Lisa gasped. "No," she whispered. "No!" her whisper grew into a yell. "Leave her out of it. Leave both of them out of it!" she screamed at Jackson as she traversed the room to meet him halfway. His arms were crossed and his expression was indifferent. "We'll live, go somewhere else, start over. Leave them out of it!"

"Be practical, Leese. If we take to the road now, we will be back on the radar and all the more accessible for those looking for us. We would leave a trail and all of this work would have been for nothing."

Lisa saw that she wasn't making progress with Jackson, so she addressed Frank. "You'll keep our secret," she asked, but stated instead.

"I will," Frank promised, nodding firmly.

"Then leave. Stay out of this. Talk to no one."

"I can't. You're in danger and it's my job to help."

"Even if it costs you your family?"

"That's the vow I made when they pinned the Badge on me."

Lisa humorlessly chuckled. She paced in place and ran a hand through her hair, grabbing a chunk and pulling it in frustration before pushing it back. "You owe me nothing. Save yourself. Save Anna. Pretend you never learned about any of this."

"I can't go back."

"Jackson!" Lisa wailed, desperate for reinforcement. "Tell him he has no responsibility to us!"

"He owes us nothing," Jackson concurred. "My deal with him simply states that if we are discovered, I will know the leak came from him and he will pay for it. That's the cost of sparing his life."

"I don't believe this," Lisa muttered, pacing once more. Between her pacing this morning and Jackson's pacing the night before, there would be a bare spot on the dining room floor soon. "You two are out of your—"

The doorbell interrupted them and Lisa cringed at the foreign sound. She had forgotten their door even had a bell on it since it hadn't been used more than once or twice, and that was only when they had first moved into the house.

Jackson took his knife from the table and headed for the door, but Lisa's hand on his arm stopped him. "You can't go looking like that. What if it's someone else?" Between the two of them, she was the less brutalized one.

Jackson shook his head at himself. He was slipping. He snapped the gun back together and cocked the slider on top. He handed it to Lisa. She checked the chamber out of habit more than distrust. Jackson followed her and stood behind the door while Frank remained concealed by the small wall of the dining room.

Lisa held the gun behind her back and opened the door.

It was Anna. "Elise, I'm so sorry to bother you, it's just—_oh my God, what happened to you?_" Anna's upset demeanor disappeared when she saw Lisa's puffy purple eyes and the angry red handprint swollen on her cheek.

"Nothing. What's wrong?" Lisa redirected.

Anna was upset enough that she let Lisa change the subject. "Frank left last night in the middle of the night and he's not back yet. His truck's still there, but he's not," she sobbed, a few tears escaping before she roughly rubbed them away.

"Anna, he's—"

"Right here," Frank said, carefully pushing past Lisa and stepping onto the sidewalk with Anna. Frank stood to where Anna's back was to Lisa so that she wouldn't accidentally see the writing on the far away wall. Or the damage. Or the blood.

"Frank! What—" Anna tried to touch Frank's tender face wounds, but he stopped her by holding her hands together in his.

"I got up to get a drink of water and I thought I saw someone breaking in over here. It turns out it was Jack and—"

"—and we proceeded to beat the piss out of each other in the dark until we realized what was going on," Jackson finished for him, stepping out of the house as Frank had. Anna gasped and turned to motherly inspect Jackson, but he backed away from her.

"You need to see a doctor. All of you," Anna elaborated authoritatively.

"We're fine. Honestly," Jackson insisted, eyeing Lisa intently. Lisa stared down at the concrete sidewalk, ignoring his penetrating gaze.

"Elise, talk some sense into Jack."

Lisa looked up, at last returning Jackson's gaze. "I wish I could." She spun around and stormed into the house.

Anna sighed, still horrified by the injuries before her. "Is she okay?"

Jackson nodded. "She took a few small hits in the scuffle. Nothing too severe. She's more upset than anything."

"I can understand." Anna exhaled again and put her palm to her forehead to compose herself. "Send us a bill for the damage. I can't imagine a fight like this not having property damage."

"It's fine. We can handle it."

* * *

Lisa watched from the kitchen window as Frank and Anna approached their own home with their arms wrapped around each other. Jackson was standing behind her; she could sense him. "Are you out of your mind?" she strained out in a low growl.

"I was saving our lives. Your life."

Lisa faced him and put her hands on her hips. "By threatening to kill his wife if something happens to me? Way to go, _Jack_!" Lisa knew that calling him "Jack" with such condescending venom would gnaw at him in just the right way.

Jackson took a menacing step forward, hoping to intimidate her. "Their lives are nothing to me. You are all that matters."

"And that will help you sleep better at night?"

"It does."

"I suppose I should be honored."

"You should."

"You disgust me." She tried to charge by him, but he shoved her back into the counter, her hand briefly making contact with the blood-soaked towel.

Jackson leaned in close, pinning her hands down upon the countertop. "You're so quick to judge me," he spat in her ear. It made her skin crawl because it brought back memories of a bathroom on an airplane a lifetime ago. "You never bothered to think about one small detail for just one little second before jumping to conclusions. It never even occurred to you that I was simply bluffing to ensure his allegiance. I would have killed Frank last night if I had to. I would have done it easily. _If I had to do it_. But Anna has nothing to do with any of this. I'm not a murderer. So stop vilifying me and look at your own damn reflection in the mirror. This is all about you and how you don't trust me. _You_. _Don't_. _Trust_. _Me_."

Her eyes went wide as it dawned on her that Jackson was not a killer. She had even told Frank as much. She knew that in her heart of hearts, yet last night had sent her into a tailspin. It was incredible how swiftly her loyalty to him had dwindled and how she had turned on him in an instant.

"You want to talk about disgust," Jackson began again. "You disgust me. I've given you my all, even parts of me that I didn't know existed, and you threw it all in my face. I thought we had an understanding, but you're nothing more than an ignorant, spoiled child. You understand nothing. No wonder it took all this time for you to catch up and figure out that your own goddamn father and Keefe were Company brothers back in the day. You're nothing to me."

* * *

After their confrontation in the kitchen, Jackson had cleaned up and left without telling Lisa where he was going or for how long he would be gone. She spent the day curled up in bed, her dry eyes cried out and her body cold and hollow. Jackson never lied, but he would tell partial truths to complete a job. The truth was that Lisa's life meant more to him than anyone's life, but the bluff came into play when he said he would kill Anna. It was a necessary modification on the truth to guarantee Frank's compliance and silence. Lisa could see that now and she was repulsed by her willingness to look for the bad in Jackson after seeking the good in him for so long. He was no longer the villain. She was.

All of their months of progress…gone. Lisa had always anticipated how Jackson would fail her. Too bad it was Lisa that had failed Jackson.

* * *

Jackson asked Frank to reach out to his freelance contact and she gave Frank and Jackson the name of the FBI agent who was leading the small, mostly cold, investigation of the Rippner case.

Jackson drove to New York to Central Park to meet with Agent James King. He knew he shouldn't rendezvous with the agent on a day like this, a day in which he was beaten and discolored, emotional and illogical, but he had no choice. It was time to end this charade, to stop pretending that this Beauty and the Beast relationship he had with Lisa would ever result in a happy ending. If he was going to take down the Company, he had to have connections with more power, and this Agent King was the best he could hope for as a comrade in arms.

"Jackson Rippner," King proclaimed, sitting down on the bench next to Jackson. They knew how the game was played. Sit. Chat. Don't make eye contact. They were professionals. "I should have you arrested right now, but Carmichael called me and said you have something bigger than yourself to offer."

"I hope you were smart enough to come alone," Jackson cautioned as he folded his newspaper neatly and pushed his aviator glasses up closer to his sore face.

"I'll let that one slide. Get to the point, Rippner, before I call in a team to collect you."

"Then you'll never get Lisa Reisert back."

King's body language slumped, non-verbally admitting defeat. "What is it, then?"

"I can give you the Company if you give me immunity."

"The Company is untouchable. How can you just hand over a group that doesn't even have face to face contact with its members?" King felt naïve asking such a question, but it begged to be asked.

Apparently King's knowledge-base was more limited than Jackson had assumed. If only King knew how things _really_ worked at the Company. "I can give you two former members who were rather high on the food chain. One's now retired, one's in politics." Jackson observed the birds fighting over crumbs on the sidewalk and realized how appropriate it was that they do so during this conversation. "I can also give you the names and locations of Company men and operation centers. I was a Manager, after all," Jackson bragged.

King did not like this man. Both had been sitting straight on the bench, staring directly ahead, but King couldn't resist the urge to turn and look at him. Rippner's face was swollen and his lips were busted open and discolored. He could only imagine what was behind the large sunglasses.

"Immunity is not something I can offer."

"Sure it is. Not on paper, at least."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting we weigh our options and decide which way is the best way for me to disappear from everyone's radar for the rest of my life, with emphasis on _life_. Double-crossing me with a bullet to the head would be unwise."

"And what about Lisa Reisert?"

"She's my problem," Jackson grumbled while remembering a long-ago prison grounds conversation with a mobster who had a clearer view of Lisa than Jackson had. "I'll deal with her."

"That sounds ominous," King noted, apprehensive of Jackson's intentions. King was helpless in this situation. The best he could do was wring his hands and hope that Jackson Rippner didn't harm his hostage.

Jackson stood up and straightened his jacket. Nonchalantly he commented, "She'll live. You have my word." With that, he ended their conference by strolling away with his hands in his pockets.

* * *

Jackson arrived at the house well after midnight. Lisa still hadn't left her bedroom. She heard his door snap shut and she went back to sleep.

* * *

**June, 2012**

"King," Agent King answered his phone.

"You met with Jackson Rippner in Central Park."

King snapped his fingers, signaling a junior agent to start recording and tracing the call. "That's none of your damn business."

"It is, in fact, very much my business, and if you don't break off contact with Rippner immediately, you'll regret it."

"I never regret anything."

"Perhaps, but maybe your mother in Arlington will regret it. Or your father will regret it. And your older brother might have issues with it, too, even if he is only D.C. police. But your step-father isn't alive to regret it. My condolences."

King got the message. He was a menace to their organization. The Bad Guys must have sent his biography around in a memo to make threatening him easier. "My family has been in the intelligence business for years. If you mess with any of them, you'll be the one to regret it, not them and definitely not me. My mom hates guns, but she can easily put a bullet between your eyes."

"I know. She failed her first two arms tests, I see, but then your step-father helped her and she became one of the Agency's best." Jim King couldn't help being winded. The caller had done his—or her—homework in great detail. He wiped the back of his warm neck underneath his collar.

"I won't drop this case."

"You should consider it."

"Why?"

"Stop stalling and let's cut to the chase. Rippner is trouble, but Reisert is safer with him than the Company. The Company wants both of them dead in a bad way. The more contact you have with Rippner, the more you are risking exposure. I don't want them exposed."

"Why? Who are you?"

"I'm Company. I know the truth. And the truth needs to stay buried or else all of your people, and Rippner and Reisert, will end up buried."

* * *

Lisa and Jackson had reverted so far back in their relationship that they never talked to one another unless it was absolutely necessary. It was not like Jackson to be so focused on playing a round of "I'm Not Talking to You," but he had gotten very good at the game. He would disappear for hours, occasionally days at a time before returning to the house, and he would never report to Lisa where he was going or where he had been.

"We need to talk," Lisa demanded after bursting into his bedroom unannounced.

Jackson was working his way through _Lolita_ when she interrupted. He slammed the book shut and carelessly tossed it on the floor next to his bed.

"Mature," she remarked.

"You have no right to barge in here and critique my behavior."

"I screwed up, okay! I admit it!" she wailed in frustration. "But we have a job to do, so let's get it done." They were both put off by how much she sounded like Jackson. When had it gotten to the point that they had switched personalities?

"What do you have for me?"

"You figured out that my dad and Keefe worked together. How? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why didn't _you_ tell me when you figured it out?" he turned the tables on her.

Lisa sat down on the edge of his bed in her Hello Kitty tank top and matching shorts. She was quite the seductress in her tween-rated ensemble.

"I was afraid," she admitted in a small voice. "If we reached the end of the road, if we knew what we were dealing with, everything would change. I didn't want that to happen. And now," she began, her eyes wide and filling with tears as she giggled nervously. She wasn't sure of what to do with herself now that she was on the spot. "And now, it _has_ changed."

"That's foolish."

"I come in here to talk business and you critique my behavior?" she shot back. Jackson snorted. "Why didn't you tell me when you figured it out?"

"I had half of it figured out from the start," he said. "I knew that Joe was Company from the moment he shot me. But Keefe, Keefe was a whole different ball of wax. Something about him and his involvement with all of this never sat right with me. You told me about how much he trusted you and how you felt you knew him so well, yet you had very little contact with him. He always stayed at your hotel, but only under your managerial watch. He trusted you completely. This didn't sound like a politician to me. This sounded like…like the uncle from out of town coming to visit his dearest niece."

"How did you figure out he was Company?"

Jackson shrugged. "It's not very logical of me, but I guessed. When all possible explanations are exhausted, whatever is left over, no matter how illogical, has to be the answer. His policies when he was first appointed to Deputy Secretary were not that intimidating, no matter how much he talked the talk on TV. It was crazy to take out a hit on the new number two man unless there was something else at play."

"I remember when I was a kid, Keefe used to call the house for my dad. He must have been giving him his orders because it was a code. It was a silly code that made no sense to me. He did this for a long time, but apparently my dad must have figured out that I was answering the phone because one day, 'Chuck' stopped going straight to the message and instead asked if it was me on the line."

"Do you think the assignments he gave you are what the Company is after?" Jackson hypothesized, sitting up straight and no longer leaning against his pillows.

"No. I think it all comes down to the fact that I know Keefe was Company, and now he's the Secretary of Homeland Security who is waging war against former clients. The Company couldn't take out Keefe years ago, so they might try again, only this time they need to get rid of anyone who knows that connection."

"My thoughts exactly," Jackson concurred.

"We should contact Keefe."

"Absolutely not. He has more than upped his security since last time, so I think it is safe to say that he is more untouchable than we give him credit for. Besides, if we make a move so public, we're shooting ourselves in the foot."

"We can't just let him die," Lisa maintained.

"He'll be fine."

"What about you?"

"I'll be more than fine." Lisa made a face and Jackson answered seriously. "They want to kill me because I'm a loose end that not only connects to your father and Keefe, but I also connect to you. I'm a double threat."

"You could always call them and tell them we had a disagreement. Then you'll be back to being a single threat in no time," she pathetically mused.

Jackson groaned. "Leese, I might dislike you tremendously right now, but I'll never stop…you know how I think of you."

Lisa nodded. "How you think of me. I thought you loved me, even if you can't say those words. But now, you 'think' of me."

Jackson slid across the bed to sit beside her. "Consider it from my side. In a matter of seconds, you went back to believing that I'm the spawn of Satan. I'm devoted to you and all you did was remind me of how beneath you I really am."

"You scared me," she softly spoke, her head falling down.

Jackson took hold of her chin and tilted her head up to face him. "If you honestly love me, you would know me and never fear me. If you can't be around me without being afraid, then you shouldn't be around me."

He let go and was about to get up from the bed when she grabbed his arm. "Jackson, it's not easy for me to be with someone after everything. I've come to terms with it, but…I'm always going to be damaged."

"Only because you want to be," he interrupted.

"You can't understand because you're a man. But with a woman, when a woman is broken like I was, there's healing, but there's no going back. There's no 100% again. There's only 99%. That little 1% will always be there, and when you were going to kill Frank, that 1% activated. You scared me, not just for me, but for you. I don't like Jackson Rippner. I can still see him slamming me against a bathroom wall, head-butting me, throwing me down the stairs…"

He said nothing as he stared beyond her and avoided her eyes. "Jackson," she continued, "I know you, but I know that you are composed of layers like an onion. I can peel back one layer and find a guy who likes to tell bad jokes over even worse Chinese food. The next layer has a guy who likes to cop a feel when he thinks I'm too distracted by the movie we're watching to even notice. The next layer is a lover who is equal parts passionate and gentle. There are layers and layers of goodness, but then I find the man who threatened to kill our friend in our dining room. Then there's the man who stalked me, and tormented me on the plane, and tried to kill me, but there's also the man who has struggled next to me to help us find peace in this world. I know all of those layers exist in you at any given moment, but I need to know that I can trust you, all of you, no matter what layer you're at on that particular day."

It was Jackson's turn for his head to drop in shame and disgrace. His hair fell down and hung in his face. It was growing long again without Lisa, his own personal Delilah, to cut it for him and deprive him of his strength. He was tempted to take a razor to it and begin anew. All of this started when he had acted out of a primal emotion to protect Lisa at all costs. He had then used his logical skills of strategy and manipulation to save her, but that contributed additional problems to their already complicated situation.

"You're living in a house with Jackson Rippner and you didn't want anything to change," Jackson asked in a statement, pointing out the flaw in her logic.

"I'm not living with Jackson Rippner. I'm living with Jackson. He's his own man. And I enjoy my life with him."

"It's all a lie, you know. This house is a safe house. We're not really married. I don't even have a last name."

"You don't need a last name. You have me."

Lisa leaned forward and kissed him, hoping to end the curse that had plagued them for a month.

* * *

**TBC…**


	13. Ch 12: Planning Perennials

**Chapter 12: Planning Perennials**

* * *

**July, 2012**

It was summer, but Lisa had felt cold for months. Now, however, she felt warm again as she lay wrapped in Jackson's arms. The sterile white bed sheet covered them modestly and it smelled like bleach and fresh, non-descript soap. She had missed Jackson—that was a no-brainer—but what she didn't anticipate was the epiphany of how desperately codependent she had become upon his presence in her day to day life.

After she had kissed him, they eased into the bed, sliding under the covers without a word. They didn't have much to say after the weeks of silence, yet their ability just to be together in the quiet spoke volumes. Jackson's face was buried in her neck, so much that her mind questioned if he could even breathe, but he seemed content enough where he was. The hard bulge pressing into her backside reminded her of how long it had been since they had participated in their mutually beneficial activity, the encounter she couldn't call making love, but was unable to refer to as sex. He wasn't pressuring her for anything on this night, even though she knew that a part of them wanted to give into their baser urges. Lisa wrapped her hands around his in front of her to hold his fists close to her heart.

"You asked me about my parents' divorce," she softly broke the stillness, conjuring in his mind a conversation that occurred weeks ago. Her words were unexpected and out of place, but Jackson let her have her say. "They divorced before I was attacked. My dad knew it was coming. And my mom knew that my dad knew."

There were very few times in his life that words had failed him, but Jackson found himself at a total loss for words. The faint sound of his appalled hiss was all Lisa could hear as a response. Her father was Company, so it made sense that they would use his daughter against him, but for Joe to stand there and let it happen, for him not to retaliate…_that _took Jackson by surprise. Then again, based on Jackson's experience with parents and the misery that they would put up with, part of him wasn't all that shocked. He had pondered Joe's possible involvement when he rested on the dreadful bed of his prison cell on one of many sleepless nights, but he had brushed it aside when he considered what a typical father would do. A typical loving father who was responsible for bringing harm to his own child would not rest until all dangers were eradicated and his child was safe again. Lisa's father had merely become overprotective and even then, it was only on a verbal level, it seemed. Jackson had made a baseless leap when he assumed that Lisa's father would have protected her had he known and that belief had proven to be erroneous.

"What makes you say that?" Jackson lamely asked with an inadequate attempt at sugarcoating. He was a master manipulator who could make people think and feel as he wanted, but ironically enough, he was not good at making people feel better when it was what he wanted for himself rather than for the job.

"The signs were all there." Lisa's voice droned with a perfect balance of cool indifference. She couldn't seem to care one way or another anymore. It was all useless facts to her, a catalog of history that she knew by heart, but never considered. It was the book of her life that she herself wrote, but she had never read it for comprehension or self-analysis.

"They were relatively happy and then they weren't. My mom convinced my brothers to move away and they did. She moved away and tried to get me to go, and I didn't. She kept trying and I didn't budge. Dad stayed in Florida despite hating it and preferring Texas. I was attacked and…and there was no going back. I didn't see the pattern then, or maybe I did and I just didn't want to. Either way, I see it now. They knew something was going to happen to one or all of us." Jackson's arms got a little tighter and she felt his body tense. Even his fists locked safely inside her hands started stiffening in controlled anger. "Was it just me?" Jackson wasn't sure what she was asking, so he said nothing until she elaborated. "Was it just us or was that typical Company technique? Did they do that to others?"

Jackson's jaw hurt when he moved to speak because he had held it in place with such contained resentment. Lisa's rape had been an unfortunate event, a situation that disgusted him and made him long to take care of her, not because she needed his masculine protection, but because he could not handle the notion of her goodness being stripped away by the world. Knowing her father and the Company were responsibility made him want to seek vengeance on a much less evolved scale. He wanted to rip the flesh from her father's face for allowing his daughter to come to such harm. He wanted to burn alive every member of the Company, even the janitor. Her mother was no saint; she had abandoned her daughter to save herself. If she wasn't already six feet under, she would also be on Jackson's secret fantasy kill list.

He wished that this could be avoided, but she needed to hear the truth. "Most agencies, legit and otherwise, discourage relationships and families. They're liabilities and are more trouble than they're worth. They're distractions. The Company, though…they _encourage_ families. They tell younger members that having the spouse and kids will help keep them grounded and sane. It's not until after the family puppy is nailed to the white picket fence that they realize how stupid they had been to have kids. Each kid is born with a target on its head and the Company aims the proverbial gun at it until they have absolute, unconditional control of the operative."

Jackson had never given consideration to any of this one way or another, but now that he was saying it, he grasped how unsavory the business really was. What was once mere logic to him was now associated with an emotional reaction and he comprehended just how susceptible he was to their methods. He had been invincible and unreachable for years, but now they would perceive him as having a weakness: the golden-brunette goddess in his arms.

The key word in that notion was "perceive."

"My dad knew." Her question was a statement and it was so brief that it could have been taken in a number of ways. Her dad knew— that families were encouraged?—that families were a weakness?— that his wife and kids were targets?—that he had done something to make his family a target and still he did nothing to save them?—that Lisa had been raped, not as a random woman, but as a placeholder to send a message? Did he know all of this or some of it? Were his hands as soiled as Lisa believed?

"Do you think he knew from the start?" Jackson turned the tables back on her.

Lisa closed her eyes. "I hope not." It seemed strange to both of them that she would hope for the best after so many months of hopelessness.

"I'm sorry," she impulsively inserted in the conversation. "For not trusting you." Jackson didn't react and he did his best to ignore her. He didn't want to hear it. "I've trusted all the wrong people my entire life. I should've trusted you. You've proven yourself to me countless times and that's more than anyone else."

"I was wrong for being upset with you," he conceded. It was a rare admission of wrongdoing and it would never happen again. "I was the one who told you not to trust me, and when you didn't, I turned on you."

"I turned on you first."

He smiled to himself.

"I shouldn't _give_ you or anyone else my trust," she decided then and there. "But you've _earned_ it, so now it's yours. You're the only one that I trust. _Completely_."

* * *

As Lisa rolled over in her sleep to face him, Jackson took the opportunity to sneak his arms away from her and slide out of bed. She never noticed it. He retrieved his iPad from the dresser top without having to feel for it in the dark and headed down the stairs with stealthy precision.

He was a Manager and he had a job to do.

Jackson huddled in a corner on the dining room floor. The light from the iPad's display cast a subtle electronic blue hue in the room. The beam of color ricocheted off his sharp cheekbones and shadowed his wide, cold eyes. He was the villain of the movie and this was his cinematic moment to physically display the evil lurking in the vacant compartment that should have housed a soul. The only thing missing was a loud cackle of laughter while rubbing his hands together and plotting his foul deeds.

His fingers expertly dashed across the screen, navigating him to his desired online location: Weisz's Doughnut Hut. For weeks, he had searched for the Company's current check-in website for Managers who needed to make contact in a non-phone capacity. Since his last official job, many of the old online haunts had been retired, so he had to use some creative thinking. After Googling until he just couldn't Google anymore, he struck gold. The Company was fond of using websites that connected historical figures with unconventional modern comforts, such as food for order online and delivery within minutes. Weisz, Houdini's real last name, and doughnuts had come up on a search quite by accident, but when he visited the site, he found the standard clues that told him it was Company.

Jackson followed the link to the "Order Online" page. In the space provided, he specified his order: _a baker's dozen doughnuts and their corresponding holes, no flavor added, arranged on a platter ready to serve at a small social event. Will pay in person upon pick-up. Contact Andrew J. by cell_, he typed before looking down at the burner phone he had purchased a few weeks prior in New Jersey on one of his two day excursions away from Lisa. He entered the number for the phone at the bottom of his "order." He proofread his writing before hovering over the "Submit" button with the cursor. He was about to change everything that he and Lisa had fought so hard to achieve all this time. He was about to transform who he was at an elemental and fundamental level for the second, perhaps even third time in his life. He was about to set up himself and Lisa in a way guaranteeing that both would walk into this inevitable trap, but only one would walk out if he or she were lucky.

He hit the "Submit" button. Jackson wasn't gullible enough to buy Lisa's guilt-driven apology. He knew the truth. Lisa thought he was a murderous monster even after all this time together. Jackson would show her who he really was and she would regret everything she ever thought she knew about him. He would show her where she could put her trust.

* * *

Lisa woke up before her eyes had the energy to open. She yelped and jumped back when she realized that Jackson was sitting on the floor next to her side of his bed. He was staring straight into her now-open eyes with his relentlessly intimidating gaze.

"What the hell? Jackson!" She scrambled to sit up, instinctively pulling the thin white sheet with her to cover the invasion of her privacy that she felt at this moment. He glared at her with an unreadable expression and his eyes unblinking as they scanned her in the inhuman way that she had become oddly accustomed to yet had not seen in some time, not even when they were avoiding one another.

"You should go shopping," he unpredictably insisted in a neutral voice.

"What?" she questioned, squinting her sleep-filled eyes in confusion as she pushed her hair back with one hand. It had grown longer again, about the length that it was when she and Jackson had first met.

"You hardly ever get out of the house."

"People know what I look like."

"Me too. But that doesn't stop me."

He had her there. Most people didn't follow the news—as evident by the state of the world today in which people walked around like malfunctioning cyborgs, constantly connected to news, but not to any information of consequence beyond the trivial. She would be nothing more than a pretty, ordinary woman, or a nobody who looked like a very famous former somebody. She was a mirage, an image that would come and go in the world, and if she kept her composure and behaved like she belonged, no one would think twice about her.

"Are you afraid of going out alone…in daylight?" Jackson probed, willfully treading on dangerous territory.

"Yeah," she admitted softly, "but not for the reason you think. Frank recognized me. After all these months, he figured it out."

"But he had months. The moron working the register at Macy's won't know you from any other ditz."

"You're such a sweet talker."

"I try," he assured her with the hint of a twinkle in his eye. "Go. Have fun."

Lisa tilted her head, momentarily directing her vision upward as she contemplated his command. "You're trying to get rid of me."

"Of course I am," he agreed without hesitation.

"Why?"

"We were compromised when Frank found us," he noted simply. Lisa sat still, patiently awaiting the rest of the answer. "I've arranged for a secondary safe house and I need to make some last minute preparations. I'd like peace and quiet while I do it."

"I'm not a nuisance," she rebuked him, rightfully suspicious of his true motives.

"As long as you're near me, you're a distraction. I need my head on the job."

* * *

Lisa picked up a blouse off the rack and analyzed it a moment before returning it to its proper place. Most of her shopping in the last year had been online and it had always been simple shopping. Plain shirts, ordinary pants, and practical accessories had become her new wardrobe now that she was no longer obligated to follow the protocols of the Lux Atlantic. Still, ironically enough, she had managed to maintain a uniform of sorts while on the run for her life. Even attempting to find girlish enthusiasm in her solo shopping excursion was proving to be impossible. The department store was full of life as kids screamed and giggled, parents chatted, and young girlfriends dished and backstabbed. Bright colors were everywhere, reiterating for her society's insistence that she adopt the season's designated style, if it looked good or not. The more she walked around in the moderately illuminated store, the more claustrophobic she felt. The indoor mall offered few windows and the voices around her were growing louder with every breath she took. She finally escaped into the open mall itself and she was grateful for the skylights on the ceiling.

With hands free of packages, Lisa zigzagged her way through rude shoppers who refused to practice courtesy and step aside. She felt like everyone was bumping into her and she desperately tried to remember if the world had always been so ill-mannered or if this was a new development. She was surrounded by zombies whose heads were down, their eyes completely absorbed by the content of their cell phones as their fingers clumsily pressed at keys and apps for no purpose other than addiction and appearances. Elderly couples walked apart from each other enough to block the entire walkway as they loudly complained about everything from politics to high prices.

Lisa settled for hanging her head down and crossing her arms. She had never noticed how filthy the world was. The floor was grimy and people were coughing and sneezing without covering their mouths. What could they _possibly_ have in the middle of the summer? Kids were shoving food into their mouths with their dirty hands and teens were sharing one drink with the entire group.

When she finally reached the food court, Lisa cut through the mob-like crowd that stood while temperamentally demanding instant service and she broke out into the outside world. She was about to take a refreshing deep breath when she spotted the dozens of cigarette smokers propped up against the wall on either side of the door marked "No Smoking for Twenty Feet," each one rebelliously blowing white clouds at her. She held her breath and hurried out into the parking lot, not caring that she had to walk to the complete opposite side to reach her car.

She broke into a run.

* * *

Lisa shifted the car into park and stepped out. She had ended up in Central Park in New York. It was crowded, as always, but at least it was open enough not to suffocate her. She pushed her sunglasses closer to her face, fingered her hair loose from behind her ears as to better conceal her identity, and started strolling down the sidewalk like she belonged.

It was a typical summer weekday and kids were running around everywhere, getting into everything they could find. The playground was good enough for the little ones, but the bigger ones who had no idea of something constructive to do ran in haphazard patterns on and off the sidewalk with no clear destination or agenda in mind. Older couples had to brace themselves and cower back to avoid collisions with them. Lisa didn't move for the misbehaving youth, opting instead to steady herself and let two of them slam into her. They pushed past her after the momentary setback without so much as an apology, but they did take the time to give her The Look for her rudeness at being in their way.

Kids were products of their parents and that told her everything she needed to know about the missing parents of these particular brats. She and Jackson were far from a typical couple and they knew that children were off the table for many reasons, one of which being their inability to raise a mentally sound family in the presence of parents who were not quite stable themselves. Lisa now recognized what a pathetic excuse that was. Anyone could have kids. Anyone could be parents. Good parents were those who tried. Good parents were honest and protected their children. They loved them unconditionally, but established firm boundaries. If anything, she and Jackson were more than qualified to be parents because they had mastered all of those skills in abundance.

She had no clue why she was thinking about having children with Jackson. She didn't want kids with him, but she didn't not want them either. It just wasn't an issue for her at this stage in her life. The idea wouldn't have entered her mind if it hadn't been for Jackson panicking about her alleged pregnancy a few months prior. At the time, she had been too distracted by poking fun at him for his reaction that she didn't have time to actually process it all for herself. What was he really afraid of: a baby or a commitment? Would a family really be such a weakness for him, even now, after everything? The end was near. Things were closing in. A breaking point was about to occur and split a crack in the foundation of everything they had been running from and fearing all this time. After they settled their unfinished business with the Company, would normalcy be in the picture?

Lisa took a seat on a warm metal bench that overlooked a pond in the park. A few people were rowing boats in the water, but most were on blankets in the plush grass around the water with picnic baskets at the ready. These people were not unlike her, or even Jackson. They all had multiple selves, multiple identities, yet they managed to keep them separate so they could relax with their families and clear their minds of stock stress, corporate mergers, that big murder trial, the advertising proposal due to the committee, the life and death operation that was going to happen first thing tomorrow morning, and so on. Why couldn't she and Jackson live that life? Avoid terrorists, avoid the law, and celebrate over spaghetti and wine before a night of lovemaking. This was starting to seem more doable and less unattainable, but the more that happened, the more Lisa accepted that she was willing something into being. It was impossible because Jackson had said it was impossible. End of discussion.

The house was a safe house. Jackson had built it for the purpose of hiding out from whomever or whatever that threatened his life. Neither of them had ever slipped and called it a "home." Never. It was always "the house" when they mentioned it, and now that Lisa thought about it, she was reasonably sure that she hadn't even considered it their "home" in the privacy of her mind. He had made it clear that this was a temporary situation, regardless of how long the time period was that they used to define the term "temporary." She had foolishly assumed this house was their Dreamhouse, and that Barbie and Ken could live Happily Ever After in it. She had been outside of the house's protection so few times that it had become her own little universe that she shared with Jackson, and no one could take away that world from them. The house was all she had. She had no home of her own, no place she could trust to keep her safe and warm. This house did just that.

She had dragged him into her delusion and now that he was speaking up and reminding her of reality, she was starting to resent him and second guess everything. He cared for her, sure, but it ended there. She was a pleasant companion, a pair of warm breasts to fondle and a body he could fill to end the lonely ache that even he was too human to completely ignore.

Jackson himself had said it best: _"You know how I think of you_._"_

She had been such an idiot.

* * *

Jackson started speaking when he heard the subtle click on the other end of the line.

"Do you see her?"

"I do," the voice said.

"Then consider that your proof of life."

"She gave me quite the chase."

Jackson's eyes narrowed. "Where are you?" he inquired.

"Central Park. She didn't stay at the mall long. Didn't even buy anything. Now she's in the park, people watching."

Jackson was bothered by this, but he pushed that aside. He didn't have time to care about Lisa's melodramatic emotional problems. "She's alive and unharmed, as you requested. Now, let's talk about my end of this."

There was a long hesitation and Jackson could imagine the owner of the voice rolling his eyes at Jackson's persistence. "You'll get your…_reward_," the voice choked out. "After I get her," he added firmly.

"It's not a reward," Jackson corrected. "It's a blank slate."

"Forgive me for having trouble believing that you'll just let her go so easily."

"I don't have to let her go. I just have to walk away. If that's good enough for me, then it should be good enough for the Piper."

* * *

Lisa returned to the house about seven that night. Jackson was sitting at the dining room table, his body rigid and proper in one of the hard wooden chairs that they so seldom used. Somehow in the darkness, she could tell that he was staring blankly ahead, completely entranced by his thoughts. He didn't see or hear Lisa, even though she was far from quiet as she entered the house and approached him. She came up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders, gently massaging the cramped muscles. He finally snapped out of his reverie, visibly flinching at her touch.

"Where were you?" Lisa asked, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. She was going to live the lie as long as she could, no matter how stupid she would feel when the charade ended. "You were a million miles away," she answered her own question.

Jackson hoarsely coughed out a small laugh. He pinched his nose and roughly rubbed his tired eyes. "I was…thinking," he said pitifully.

She kneaded the tightly knotted muscles in his neck and shoulders, but they refused to loosen under her relentless ministrations. "It must be bad," she mused under her breath. "You have got to relax," she insisted, leaning over to place a series of warm kisses on his hot neck. She stopped rubbing his shoulders and let her arms drop forward to wrap his neck in her loose hold. Her mouth inched up to his ear and her tongue traced it before she playfully nipped at it. She felt Jackson tense in her arms and ignored it, but when he started fidgeting anxiously, she stepped back. "What's wrong?" she demanded nervously as Jackson stood up from the table with his iPad in hand.

"I'm tired. I just need to call it a night." With that, he hurried out of the room, leaving her in the darkness of the bottom floor with his pounding footfall up the stairs as her only company.

* * *

The small tremors of someone entering her bed awoke Lisa from her deep sleep. She had been dreaming, something she had not experienced in ages, it seemed. She had no memory of the dream when she was pulled out of it by the stranger's intrusion in her bed, but she felt comforted by the forgotten fantasy all the same.

Jackson's heavy arm slipped around her waist and his hand sneaked under her shirt. For some reason, his hand loved to rest on her stomach. The warm, soft flesh under her shirt was his favorite place to touch, sometimes just to feel her and sometimes to trace slightly ticklish patterns with his fingers. Occasionally his hand drifted lower to rest on the gentle slope of her lower abdomen and other times he went up to just under her breasts. She never asked why. Every man had his own _thing_, and leave it to her peculiar man to have an unusual fixation. She could feel him trying to carefully spoon his body into hers without disturbing her slumber too much. She assisted him by sliding herself back into him.

"I'm awake," she pointed out the obvious.

"Sorry," he automatically responded. Apologies, no matter how casual, always seemed strange coming from him. He never felt he had a reason to apologize because he never regretted any of his well-planned actions. It came across more as manners from play-acting rather than authentic regret and remorse.

"Do you want to talk?" she offered, knowing the answer would be negative.

"Nothing to say."

"There's always something to say. Something's bothering you and it's bad. I think I have the right to know."

He exhaled as he hid his face in her neck. His hair felt long on the skin of her neck and shoulder, and she made a mental note to nag him about cutting his hair.

"You've never seen me prepare for a job," he told her, his breath hot and moist on her skin. "I become…tense. Obsessed. Absorbed. It's like I leave my body so I can seek out cognitive clarity. I did that today. But now you're back and I'm having trouble readjusting since the job isn't over yet."

Lisa understood. It made perfect sense to her. Jackson was a very dedicated man who, when focused on a goal, was completely lost to the world and even himself. She didn't know how to deal with that and she was glad that she had left him to his own devices during the day.

"What can I do to help?"

He squeezed himself closer against her, now possessively draping his leg over hers. "Let's leave." Lisa didn't expect that as his answer. "Just for a few days. Take a vacation. Enjoy ourselves. Get away from that fucking wall and just…breathe."

"And then?"

"And then we end this. We take what we have to the Company and negotiate."

"I thought they didn't negotiate."

"Not with words. We'll have to make a sacrifice."

Lisa was stunned speechless and a chill of fear raised every hair on her body. "What are we going to sacrifice?"

"Them. We send a message that we aren't to be touched."

"We're not killers." She wasn't sure what had gotten into him. Was he feeling defeated? Was he losing his mind?

"No. We're survivors."

* * *

The next morning, Jackson woke Lisa by stirring her from her cozy little nest under the covers. She felt warm and even in the summer, a warm bed was her preferred way of waking up.

"Pack your things. We're taking a trip."

Lisa plopped backward, her head slamming into her pillow with such force that it buckled up on the sides around her face for an instant. She groaned. The sun was barely up and her eyes weren't focused enough yet to view the blurry digital red numbers on her clock. She grabbed the sheet and stretched it over her head.

"If I pack for you, you'll arrive at our destination wondering why you don't have any clothing in your bag."

"Do we _have_ to leave this early?"

"Yeah, we do, Leese. Get up or I will get you up."

She peeked out from under her cotton-blend sanctuary, her eyebrow raised suggestively. "I bet I could get you up first."

Jackson shook his head. "Tsk," he scolded. "You had your chance." He clutched all the covers in his fist and jerked them off in a swift motion before scooping Lisa up into his arms and hurling her over his shoulder. She squealed, in both panic and delight at his sudden aggression, as he carried her off like a caveman. He navigated them into her bathroom and she could tell he was turning on the shower. Just as quickly as he had grabbed her, he deposited her in the bathtub and pulled the knob to turn on the showerhead.

As freezing cold water rained down on her, she vowed vengeance.

* * *

They had been driving for a few hours at a casual pace. Jackson was apparently keen on appreciating the ride as much as the destination. His gaze wondered comfortably as his steely blue eyes took in all the sights, even when it was nothing more than acres of trees. Lisa let him have his solitude—they were alone, but together. She had attempted to nap at the start, but something in her gut told her that Jackson required her unspoken support.

He had vaguely described his job planning mannerisms and based on her knowledge of his eccentric behavior, he would need her now more than ever. From behind her dark sunglasses, she would sneak glimpses of his set jaw, tight lips, narrowed eyes, and furrowed brow. The tension in his face came in waves and flowed away just as easily as they had appeared on his chiseled features. The small cluster of muscles at his jawline would tighten when a new thought entered his mind and that was his tell. When his jaw clinched, a type of darkness would sweep over him. She could see strategies play out before his eyes and numerical probabilities took dominance over any human bias that he may have been hindered by during this planning process. Occasionally his lips would move, soundlessly speaking to an unseen enemy. His shadowed face would turn cool and blank as he practiced his unspoken speech as not to give away anything. When he had told her about doing his homework, she figured it was research and contemplation. Lisa would have never guessed that Jackson actually put into application his plan, experimenting with his strategies as if he were on _Star Trek_'s Holodeck. It was all a program that could be reset, reviewed, and repeated as many times as necessary to get it right. He could, quite realistically, be prepared for any possible scenario.

Jackson's lips stopped moving and he sighed, shaking his head in a movement so slight that Lisa would have missed it if she had not been staring at him directly. He wrapped his chin in his hand and leaned his elbow against the small width of the door at the base of the closed car window. His fist eased upward, covering his now-motionless lips. He repositioned his right hand on the steering wheel, grimacing in disappointment at himself for his faux failure.

He felt Lisa's eyes on him and he finally acknowledged her. "Sorry," he disingenuously offered. The only purpose the impassive apology served was to fill the awkward air with something to break the ice. For Jackson, being seen in this state was like being caught singing naked in the bathroom, or perhaps worse. He was vulnerable right now as he attempted to gain a firmer footing than his enemy and that made him unaware of his own surroundings as he became lost in a world of hypothetical situations and impossible odds.

Jackson's eyes were back on the road. Lisa cleared her throat. "You're stressed about this one, aren't you?" He shot a quick glance her way. "This job," she clarified. He looked toward her again. "This is the one, isn't it? This is the big one."

"It is," he monosyllabically concurred. If only she knew.

Lisa peered out the window with a curiosity driven by boredom. The neatly mowed grass of civilization had been replaced gradually by picturesque tall grass littered with bright wild flowers leaning lazily in the gentle wind. "What's the plan?"

"Nothing set in stone yet, but I have ideas."

Lisa dropped her head back against the seat, her eyes still trained on the flowers. They were wild, unwanted, and usually killed by most people for being undesirable and not good enough, but they held strong against whatever nature blew at them and they never lost their flower-dignity. They might have been reduced to living away from the world as outcasts who embraced their exile, but they knew it was the only way to survive. And they weren't alone. They were with their own kind. They might have been different types of flowers, but they were all weeds and they were all in it together, surviving, not fighting.

"I thought when we figured out about my dad and Keefe that we would just—I don't know. Go public? Call Keefe? Threaten the Company with exposure?" She rolled her lazily relined head toward Jackson, patiently awaiting his response.

"We've only scratched the surface with the wall. We've figured out a ton of connections, but it's pointless. We've put together all of the puzzle pieces, but we're standing too close to see what picture the completed puzzle makes. We need that picture. Otherwise, we're just bluffing."

"Bluffing—wasn't that Plan A?"

"It is. But you can't bullshit someone without a pile of shit."

Despite herself, Lisa smiled at Jackson's crude turn of phrase. He was usually classier than that, opting more for an intelligent line than a plebian slur of ignorance. Still, it was amusing for some endearing yet juvenile reason.

He continued speaking, unaware of her secret smile at his unintentional display of charm. "We know the hierarchy of the Company well enough to make a power play, but we have to give them something that would make it worth their effort not to kill us. We have to show them that we are a threat only if they choose to make us one, that if they leave us alone, we'll leave them alone."

"You're going to call for a truce?"

Jackson shrugged. "'Truce,' or 'don't kill us and we won't expose you after we kill the Piper.' Same thing," he oversimplified.

Lisa's mouth dropped open. "Www—_wait_…we're, we're going to _kill the Piper_?" she sputtered.

"If we have to. I prefer that we talk about this like grown-ups, but if they want to go there, we will. I like keeping all of my options open, even the less favorable ones. As long as I get the job done, my success will justify the means."

Lisa exhaled slowly through her still slack lips. She had completely missed Jackson's pronoun switch from "we" to "I." She was too awe-struck by the magnitude of the situation that she was just now able to semi-clearly see. Lisa didn't know what the big finale of their story would be, but now she was starting to see the big picture and she didn't like it. It scared her. It scared the hell out of her.

Her own mortality had seemed inconsequential for so long. Because she had felt apathetic toward life for many years, it suddenly seemed like she had been awakened into a world of nightmares that she could not conquer, and failure was as frightening an option as success. She and Jackson had been in hiding for barely a year and now it was over. Everything was ending. The world was ending. Unfortunately for Lisa, she was pretty sure that no one else noticed or cared that the sky was falling down on her. Assuming that she survived the final battle between good and evil (or maybe it should be "the final battle between slightly soiled and evil"), there was nothing for her to go back to, no world that she could call her own.

She was one of those wild flowers. She was strong and beautiful off on her own with another wild flower, but in the real world, she was just a weed to be pulled away from the proper flowers.

* * *

Lisa had dozed off somewhere along the way. She awoke to find Jackson (now wearing his sunglasses) taking a swig from a bottle of water. "Where are we?" she groggily croaked, amazed at how sleep-filled her voice was. It was still daylight, but the sun was fading fast.

He handed her an unopened bottle of water that he had bought for her apparently not too long ago. The bottle was still cool and condensation soaked its outside. The car's gas gauge revealed the tank to be just a bit below full, suggesting that he had purchased the water when fueling the SUV. "Almost there," was his cryptic answer.

"You can't tell me?" she pressed.

"You don't need to know. Just enjoy the trip. Clear your head. Don't think about the job. At least not yet." He shoved his left hand through his hair, pushing the long dark mass out of his face. He had worn his hair a little on the long side for most of his life—long enough to be individually distinctive without losing professionalism—but now, after becoming accustomed to Lisa's meticulous short cut, a little extra length was starting to annoy him more easily.

"It's hard to 'just enjoy the trip' when all I can think about is the shootout we're going to have with the Piper at the O.K. Corral," she disclosed. A few large rocky hills were visible outside the car now, and the land was lusher and greener than she could ever recall seeing anywhere else for a long time. Given the length of the trip thus far, they had to be in Virginia. "There's no other way around it, is there?" Jackson's jaw tightened again. He didn't want to talk about it. He was allowed to think about it, to dwell on it until he was ill, but she couldn't speak it aloud. It was too real when she spoke it aloud. "He wants us dead. There's no other way around it," she answered for herself.

Jackson exhaled loudly through his nose and shifted in his seat. "Maybe he doesn't want us dead. Maybe we can offer a suitable alternative."

"'Suitable alternative'?" Lisa repeated with a laugh.

"Let's be rational for a minute here, Leese," Jackson began patronizingly. Lisa crossed her arms at his tone. "Death is a solution for a problem in this business and we are each a problem. I'm a defective employee who fucked up an important assignment. You're a little more complicated than that. Let's stop thinking about what they want to do to us and start thinking about _why_ they want to find solutions to our problematic status."

"I'm not following you." Lisa took off her sunglasses and turned in the seat to get a better view of her partner.

"We've stared at that damn wall until we can't even close our eyes without seeing it imprinted in our vision. And we've made a lot of assumptions because of that," he said, patiently explaining himself in slow, deliberate detail. "I contributed a fairly-complete map of the Company's hierarchy and tactics, a history of some of the more important jobs, and a list of who's who—but with a few major exceptions, such as the Piper. You listed everything about your family tree, your job, and your encounters with Keefe. We've been assuming all this time that they want you dead because of what you know. Frank spent fifteen minutes in front of that wall before pointing out something that you and I never considered in one year. What if they don't want you dead because of what you know?" Jackson turned to address his final words to her face. "What if they want you dead because of _who_ you know?"

Lisa was unresponsive, holding in all reaction and awaiting further explanation.

"Think about it. You've known about your father and Keefe's involvement with the Company since you were a child. You may not have realized you knew it, but you did and that was still a potential threat to them. The Company handles those threats immediately. They don't hope for the best and let it slip by. It wasn't until after the four of us became intertwined in this mess that they decided they wanted you dead—and even then, it was six years _after_ the fact."

"What are you saying?" Lisa directly asked, not sure if Jackson had more explanation to give or if this was the part where she was supposed to understand it on her own. Either way, she was ready for the joke's punch line.

"I'm theorizing here," he put forward as a small disclaimer. "What if Keefe has become a threat to the Company, more now than before, because of some new development? What if he has just now become too untouchable for them to reach? What if the only person who can reach him is an old friend and co-worker, the retired former agent whose daughter was dragged into this mess, not once, but twice before? And what if that agent refuses to take the hit on Keefe?"

"Then that agent's daughter is again brought into the mix. The agent kills Keefe, the daughter lives; he doesn't kill Keefe, she dies," Lisa provided. "My information on Keefe and my dad is inconsequential by itself because I wouldn't have a leg to stand on if I tried to go public or report it to the authorities, so I'm meaningless by myself. But if the Company needs my dad to do something—"

"—Then you are the ideal motivation to encourage his brief return to work from retirement. That's why they let you live all these years unharmed. That's why they've used you twice before and now a third time. You're their leverage over your father."

"And you?"

"I'm still just the guy who fucked up the job. The only difference is now I'm fucking it up even worse because I'm helping you."

Lisa massaged her forehead, pinching her nose between her eyes. "This is crazy," she muttered. "We've been looking in the wrong direction the entire time."

"Not necessarily," he countered. "Samuel told me they were going to kill you."

"Yeah, because of what I knew. And that's not the case. Samuel was wrong."

Jackson shook his head. "He wasn't wrong. He was just the victim of time. We've had a straight year of uninterrupted time to figure this mess out and he only had a few days. He went off the practical assumption that they wanted you for what you know. The important thing is that Samuel knew they wanted you dead. He told me that so I could get to you first. Not only did he figure out what you are to me," Jackson said, carefully skirting the issue, "but he knew that the only way I would survive, the only way the Company could be brought down, is if we work together. You're the bait, Leese, for your father, Keefe, and me. You're the incentive for Daddy to do his job and you're the threat to the Company's stability. I'm the delinquent who knows who they are. Taking down the Company is a two-man job—"

"—And Samuel knew we were the only two who could do it. Samuel played matchmaker to a match made in hell." It was Lisa's turn to shake her head, exasperated and overwhelmed. "That's a mighty big theory you have there, Jackson."

Jackson laughed, for the first time in what seemed like forever. "That's what all the ladies say."

* * *

After about a total of nine hours on the road, they finally reached their destination as the late afternoon was starting to fade away for yet another evening to reclaim dominion. Lisa wasn't sure how to react as the rather unmaintained farm house was revealed to be their vacation getaway.

"Does someone live here?" she wondered aloud, taking one step out of the car, but still clinging to the inside of the door. "Maybe a chainsaw-wielding psycho…?"

"Nope. I found it online last night. I rented it from the owner for the week," he responded, slamming his car door and walking around to the passenger's side. "No television. No internet. No cell phones. No—" he began, claiming Lisa's hand into his own before pulling her away from the car and closing the door, "thoughts of any kind. Just peace and quiet." Lisa couldn't recall seeing any other roads or buildings within miles of this place, and the house itself was at least half a mile from the main road. "Just you and me," Jackson added.

Lisa slid her hand out of his, hoping it wouldn't send the wrong message. "What is this?" He didn't respond, but instead gave her one of his inhuman glares as he attempted to decipher her strange, emotion-riddled language. "You've been running hot and cold. One minute, you can't stand for me to be near you, the next you can't wait to wrap your arms around me. This is more than a vacation. Why are we out here? We're in the middle of nowhere! We could have stayed at the house and faked a trip like we did at Christmas. Why here? Why now?"

Jackson pressed the trunk button on the car remote and collected their bags from the back. He unconcernedly dropped Lisa's on the dirt driveway at her feet. "You know the end is here. Things are about to change and there is no going back. I don't believe in regrets or unfinished business. I plan to leave here with my affairs in order because we don't know what will happen in the next few weeks."

"That's what I am to you? An affair to put in order?" She felt like she was beating a dead horse, always playing the same old song, doing the same old dance. They had been through this game before and each resolution to it was more ambiguous than the one prior.

"You still don't know what you are to me, do you?" Lisa remained quiet. "Then I guess you'll never know." He turned toward the house and left her standing in the cloud of dust from his dragging footfall.

* * *

Jackson found the house key taped under the unpainted wooden porch swing and charged into the house as if he had been there a thousand times before. Lisa took her leisurely time as she grabbed her stuffed backpack and stumbled distractedly toward the house. The structure was old, probably from the 1930's at least, and she was sure that the center frame of the house may have been built at the turn of the century or earlier. The paint was probably fresh twenty years ago, but now it was nothing more than uneven white chips here and strips there. It was a two story home that was slightly wider than a perfect square. There was little to no creativity in its design or outside decoration. It was practical and, at the time, probably cheaply made to serve a purpose rather than to make a statement. As she stepped onto the porch, the wood creaked unstably beneath her feet. She couldn't wait to hear the decrepit sounds the second floor made. Wondering if one would be in a collapsing building was a great way to relax and enjoy a vacation.

Jackson dropped his bag in the living room. He stood in the kitchen and surveyed the cabinets and the refrigerator. Lisa was just grateful to see that they had electricity.

"I paid extra for her to fully stock it for the week," he commented. He shut the refrigerator door and leaned back against the kitchen counter. "The property is approximately one mile wide and we have free reign of it. A lake runs through it about six hundred feet behind the house. It's clean and suitable for swimming. There's a barn that I'm sure you can explore, but I can't think of any reason you'd want to."

"Especially after that episode of _The Walking Dead_," Lisa quipped. Jackson's lip curled in the faintest hint of a grin, but it almost instantly vanished. "I think I'll just go upstairs and pick a room…leave you to your thoughts."

Jackson ignored her as she returned to the front of the house to take the stairs. He walked down the hallway located under the stairs and entered what he claimed as his room. He jerked his clothes out of his bag in waded-up handfuls at a time until he found a t-shirt and his sweat pants.

He had to run.

* * *

Usually he ran at night when the world was scary and lonely, when his thoughts were erratic and distracting, but now he was compelled to run as the sun set upon him. It was symbolism that had subconsciously driven him to run at this time given that the sun was setting on his time with Lisa and on his life as he had redefined it after all that had happened in the last seven years.

The constant question that he had pondered when he went out for a run was if he was running toward or away from something. The answer was no clearer now than it had been a year ago or on the prison grounds, but the evidence all supported the notion that he was running away from something. Lisa was no longer in front of him. A future, however bleak or unconventional, was no longer an option. In a few weeks, he would either be dead or wish he were dead, or he would be back in a life that made him as much a victim as a villain.

As he jogged slowly down the steep hill that led to the lake, he considered his options. He was going to play all sides and there was no way that it would end well.

Jackson picked up the pace to a mad dash. At the start of his stay with Lisa, the mantra that he had repeated both in his mind and aloud to her was how this would not end well. In retrospect, his words had been very prophetic, or perhaps they had merely been a self-fulfilling prophecy that he had condemned himself to experience. It was times like this that he wished he had been a normal person, someone who could selfishly want something for himself, such as a life with Lisa, and then just make the simple, stupid decision to do it and to hell with the consequences. Living a life of such foolish emotion-based action was apparently successful enough that everyone in the world kept doing it day after day, year after year, generation after generation—everyone but Jackson.

Their year together had definitely sent them for a ride full of ups and downs, but he preferred to think of it as more positives than negatives. Lisa had started out as a disease that ate away at his brain as he watched her for eight weeks. In prison, she had morphed into a Fury, a haunting Wraith whose constant wails and screams taunted him for his crimes against her. In their house, Lisa became his partner. Sex was of lesser relevance to him, as it was a trivial physical impulse driven by human hormones that served as a bonus only, so calling her a partner in that way was a non sequitur. She had become his partner by changing enough to meet him halfway and by provoking him to change himself enough to meet her the rest of the way. They worked, fought, flirted, played, cooperated, schemed, laughed, cried, screamed—and all of it was together. He had known for so long that they were the only ones in the world who could understand one another and it was truer now than ever before.

Jackson knew that Lisa was looking for conventionality. He knew that she wanted to hear him say "I love you" and act like a typical boyfriend, husband, or whatever she wanted from him, but he couldn't do that. He could not conform to such standards because they were a falsehood that he didn't comprehend and he would not pretend to be something he wasn't, not even for Lisa. He was a man of logic and action. His feelings for Lisa were in every single aspect of his being and if that was too subtle for her to recognize, if that wasn't good enough, then she had successfully destroyed her own chance for a happy ending. There was nothing the Company could do to her then because she would have already lost.

* * *

Lisa didn't bother changing out of her jeans and fitted navy blue v-neck pullover, but she did remove her sneakers and socks, and pull her barely shoulder-length hair into a messy pony tail. She dug through the upper cabinets and found a bag of microwave popcorn, and then she hunted through the lower cabinets until she found a microwave in storage. She removed the semi-heavy appliance from the cabinet and put it on the counter. The popcorn was just starting to pop when Jackson loudly entered the house. As per his routine, he locked the door and then did a quick survey of the door and windows. He left for a few minutes and Lisa figured he was checking the rest of the dimly-lit downstairs for security purposes.

At first, she didn't say anything as he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and started downing it, but when he was a little below half a bottle without stopping, she had to intervene. "You're going to make yourself sick," she maternally warned.

He abruptly stopped. Water dripped down his sweaty chin as he pulled the bottle away and recapped it. He struggled to steady his breathing. "Says the woman eating _popcorn_ for dinner," Jackson shot back as he returned the bottle to the refrigerator shelf and wiped his lips and chin with the back of his arm.

"Want anything to eat?" she meekly offered. Lisa removed the popcorn from the microwave, her fingers playing "Hot Potato" with the corners of the steaming bag before she dropped it onto the counter.

"Not hungry. I'm going to take a shower."

He had barely turned away when Lisa's hand on his soaking wet t-shirt stopped him. He looked over his shoulder, not dignifying her with a full turn. She took the initiative and moved to stand before him. "I don't want our last days, weeks, or _whatever_ to be like this. Jackson, I'm sorry." She sighed softly as she felt the burden lift from her shoulders. She wasn't quite sure why she was apologizing or why it felt so relieving, but she had been compelled to do it.

"Why are you apologizing?" Jackson asked, his eyes squinted in confusion. He tiled his head to the side, his analytical glare penetrating Lisa to her core.

She sighed again. She put her hand to her forehead, hoping to hold back the throbbing stress headache that had been forming for about an hour. "You think that I don't understand what you're feeling right now…what you're constantly thinking about," she began, her arms helpless at her sides. Her hands moved confidently to her hips, "but I do. You've had jobs before, but I haven't. I need your help in this. I need your patience," she said, her hands reaching out, but falling back to her sides when she realized how stone-like he stood before her.

"When have I been anything other than patient with you?" he questioned, his mind instantly pulling-up images of how he more than accommodated her for her issues regarding men and sex, how he avoided saying things that would upset her given their history, how he refrained from talking to her about things that might hurt her until he confirmed them as true or determined that she was able to handle it. "Don't you dare apologize to me, Lisa. Just keep your mouth shut. This isn't about the job and you know it. All you're doing is making yourself feel better because _you _won't close the gap between us when time is running out and you want to pin that on me so you can justify why it hasn't happened." There, someone said it. He hadn't planned to say it. It hadn't even been formed into actual words in his head, but it still came out.

Lisa knew it was true and that made it hurt worse.

Jackson knew it was true and that gave him strength to resume speaking. "I've made every move," he stated with one arm stretched out so his index finger could stab at her accusingly with each point he made. "I've made every gesture, every step forward. It was all me, Leese! I've never pressured you. I've avoided saying or doing anything that would cause you pain or distress, but that's not enough. You're so goddamned focused on what I'm not and what you and I can't have that you don't know what we actually _do_ have!"

He was angry. She hated when he was angry, but this time she was actually glad for it, perhaps even comforted by it. She almost felt like she needed the cold splash of truth in her face. Unfortunately, there were two sides to every truth. Lisa's eyes were tearing-up and her lips were red and starting to swell. She sniffed. "And what might that be? Let me guess: if I don't know, you aren't telling me?"

Jackson snorted and linked his arms across his chest protectively. He hung his head down so he could watch his feet as he considered what to say. He finally looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears that he would never shed. Lisa didn't have that luxury of dignity, as tears were now freefalling down her burning flushed cheeks. "You know what I am," he sensibly began with a slow articulation of his words. "Take me as I am or throw me away, but don't hold me responsible for not being something that we both know I _can't _be."

"Why can't the same apply to me?" she yelled, now empowered by anger. "Why do you hold me responsible for what I can't be?" Jackson stared her down, his face completely unreadable. That scared her more than when he was angry. "I was _raped_, Jackson! My body was captured and violated in the worst way possible. You can _never_ understand that! _Never!_ And then when I thought I would be okay, that I could just compartmentalize and move on, you came into my life and fucked it up even more!"

"_There it is_," Jackson declared, nodding to himself. She was right. She was as over the assault as she could be, but his original encounter with her on the Red Eye flight was something she would never let rest. "We can't get past that—"

"We can," she interrupted. "I have. For the most part, at least. You can turn so cold, so detached, that I don't know if I have Jackson or Jackson Rippner. You might think you're giving me all of these clear and obvious signs, but you're not. You're always so blunt and logical, but you never, ever, _ever_ get to the point when it's about us." She took a breath for the first time since she started screaming. Lisa continued, this time in a lower voice. "I understand who you are and what you've been through. We're both damaged. But that excuse will only take us so far. We have to heal. We have to get over it, but it takes time. I try to let you in, but you won't, and you won't even begin to let me in. We're in the same book, Jackson. We're even in the same chapter most of the time, but I don't think we've made it to the same page yet."

He remained still and when no reaction came from him, Lisa started crying again, but this time her tears came with loud bursts of emotion.

He blinked hard to clear his own eyes of fluid. "Don't cry, Leese," he said tenderly despite shuffling awkwardly. That made her cry harder. "Don't," he repeated over and over, shushing her and muttering soothing words. He inched closer and she stepped back. He grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her against her will into his arms. In a matter of moments, her protests were long forgotten as she wrapped her arms around his neck and cried into his shoulder. He rubbed her back, still whispering attempts at calming her. Tears brewed in his eyes once more, but those too were blinked away.

"I don't want to be an affair you have to settle," she mumbled into his shoulder. It took him a few seconds to translate her words from Hysterical Woman Talk into English, but he got the idea. "I don't want to lose you. I don't want this to end."

"A resolution is necessary, regardless of how things are resolved," he paraphrased an oft-quoted saying.

Lisa lifted her puffy face from his shoulder so she could be face to face with him and remain firmly in his embrace. "There you go again…saying something without saying anything."

"I'm saying what I have been saying the entire time: this won't end well."

Lisa lifted one of her hands from his neck and placed it firmly over his heart. They both looked down at her hand as if expecting to see magic sparkle from it as the curse was broken, but no such luck occurred. "It won't end well," she concurred. Their heads lifted and their eyes met simultaneously in total sync with one another. "So we need to make the most of what we have right now."

* * *

He stepped out of the shower and heard voices coming from the living room. Without bothering to dry off, he slipped on his jeans and carefully made his way down the hall. When he reached the threshold of the living room, he peaked in and found Lisa, now in a pair of solid colored purple pajamas and her hair loose on her shoulders, curled up on the couch with her popcorn as she watched television.

"False advertising…I thought there was no television," he criticized, making his presence known. "Popcorn, a shabby building, cheap beer, and _The Princess Bride_. What is this, a frat house? And here I was coming to rescue you from intruders," he muttered, turning to go back to his room.

"You're not going to join me?" she proposed timidly, her eyes taking an appreciative view of the muscles on his scarred back.

"In a minute."

As promised, he returned a few moments later, his hair towel-dried and pushed back carelessly by hand rather than comb, and his jeans now replaced by his dark blue pajama bottoms and a gray t-shirt. He plopped down onto the couch, turning so he could lie on his side with his arm pillowing his head in order to see the television better.

"Popcorn?" Lisa offered.

"Nah," he declined, nabbing the beer bottle from her hand and taking a long swig before returning it to her.

Lisa took one last sip of beer before she put it and the popcorn bag on the floor to the side of the couch. She kept her head forward, but she turned her eyes on Jackson. He watched attentively as "The Battle of Wits" unfolded on the screen. He could seem so normal, so much like "a real boy," but he was still Pinocchio, a wooden puppet who was part of the world but not of it.

He could feel her intense examination of him. "Are you stalking me?" he asked in a hushed whisper, never showing any hint that he was anything but completely focused on the movie.

"A little," she admitted, unable to hold back a small smile at his ability to catch her in the act. "I just want to memorize you, right here, right now, watching a silly movie and just being normal."

"Yeah, that's not creepy at all," he kidded. She playfully smacked his leg, earning an "ow!" for her efforts.

Lisa slid onto the floor and scooted over so that she could lean against the couch face to face with Jackson. "Assuming we survive, what happens next?"

"That's a loaded question."

She mutely nodded, her expression not unlike that of a child prepared to argue the impossible with his dying breath. "I know you well enough to know that you've already played out at least fifty possible scenarios and I want to know what happens after that."

"Forty-nine end in one or more funerals," he deadpanned, directing his eyes toward the television in lieu of hers.

"And number fifty?" she pressed. Jackson's piercing blue eyes locked on hers. He bit down on his lower lip and his hard outer shell softened. He reached out and stroked her hair, and his palm came to rest cupping her cheek. She leaned into his hand, her eyes closed.

"I would give anything to be able to ride off into the sunset on a white horse with you, but we have to be realistic. It's not going to happen."

She sighed and opened her eyes to be wide and full of hope. "But if it could—"

"If it could, then what? We'd get married, have a bunch of kids, attend school functions, fight over bills and which brand of peanut butter tastes better and me coming home suspiciously late after work at the accounting firm. We'd grow old and sit in the nursing home telling stories to the school kids on field trips about how I met you when I terrorized and threatened you on the plane. 'Oh yeah, Mr. Rippner, I read about that on Wikipedia!'"

"That's rather bleak…"

"We aren't those people," he exhaled, rolling his eyes up to stress his point. "We're the ones who kicked a beehive and are going to be running from the bees for the rest of our lives. Even if we attempt to be normal, what happens when Jackson Jr. gets kidnapped on the way home from school or if Little Lisa hits the teen years with hormonal vengeance and she runs away with the love of her life who happens to be a Company junior agent?"

"Who said we have to have kids?" she countered.

Jackson grunted disapprovingly. "It may not seem like a sacrifice to you right now, but soon enough, it will. You'll want a baby or it will happen by accident, and you'll be beside yourself with happiness. You might even be able to carry it to term without something happening to you, but after hours of excruciating labor, your precious baby is put in the hospital nursery. Unfortunately, the nurse who was paid to look the other way never saw the Company agent who waltzed in the front door and smothered your child."

His cautionary tale worked. She didn't want to have this conversation anymore. She couldn't hear this. She leapt up, but Jackson was on his feet and he grabbed her arms, forcing her to stand before him. She tried to jerk away, but his hold was so firm that she was sure she would have bruises tomorrow.

He let go of her arms and cupped her face, leaning his forehead in to touch hers. "This is realistic. I'm not trying to scare you. I'm trying to _warn_ you. I have too many marks on my head to be with you and you're too important for me to allow you to be a bigger target than you already are. I am saying 'no' to everything I want because I can't risk what will happen to you or your chance at a normal, happy life, and I am not about to take a chance at having a kid who will end up as fucked up as me."

Lisa recalled his response to her assumed pregnancy a few weeks ago. He had not been angry, but it was more of a case of shock and perhaps even melancholy. Whatever was going through his head at that time had been even more of a mystery to her than usual, but there was one thing that was apparent: he hadn't forced the issue. There were no lectures, no demands of an abortion, no mental or emotional attacks. If anything, it seemed like the urge to be protective was starting to sneak into his mannerisms without even realizing it. She remembered the panicked expression on his face when she suggested they practice their fight skills together. If he hadn't wanted kids, all it would have taken for Jackson Rippner to solve that problem was one "accidental" move in just the right way.

"You want kids," she accused suddenly, removing his hands from her face.

"What?" he stammered, taken aback by her sudden accusation. He took what he believed were a few casual steps back, but they seemed more like stumbles.

She moved in, forcing her close proximity upon him. "You're acting like you're trying to talk me out of wanting kids, but now that I think about it, I've never been the one to bring up that topic—"

Jackson laughed nervously. "I definitely don't want kids," he insisted.

Lisa smiled as she nodded in agreement while going along with him in appearance only. "Is that so?" she asked dubiously.

Jackson huffed and shook his head at having to even dignify this accusation. "You're the one who keeps getting sentimental about our future and you're the one whose Biological Clock is apparently ticking. Don't think I didn't notice how sappy your voice was when you asked me if I wanted a baby." Lisa mentally gave him credit for that one. After all that business about Jackson and Frank thinking she was pregnant, she had gotten weak and humored the idea, and she had been silly enough to actually ask Jackson about it. "You're thirty-four and the Clock's ticking."

"_My_ Biological Clock?" She snickered. "Okay," she tried soberly. "I admit it. I do want kids—one day, but not today. Now, back to the sound of clocks ticking, what about you, Big Ben? You're thirty-six and more than a little emotionally constipated, but can you look me in the eye and honestly say that you don't want a baby?"

Jackson's jaw clinched, a small sign, but Lisa caught it. She knew she had him. He squared his shoulders, crossed his arms, and looked her dead in the eye. "No," he said firmly. Lisa knew he expected her to interpret that as the answer: no, he did not want a baby. The master of words also said "no" in a way that could mean no, he could not look her in the eye and honestly say it, and Lisa, after having enough practice translating Jackson's language, knew he was taking a shortcut. He most likely had no answer and judging by the slight terror that had jarred his senses during the "pregnancy scare," maybe the answer frightened him as much as the prospect of a family.

"What I would like to know," he began to change the subject, "is why we're even discussing this matter. We're not really married, Leese," he reminded her with raised eyebrows.

"You don't have to be married to be in a relationship," she said to him as if he were the dumbest five-year-old on the playground. "We _are_ in a relationship, right?"

There it was again—the nervous laugh. "We're partners. We work together. We keep each other safe. We solve problems. We have a job to do and this was our cover."

"Our cover, huh? And what about when we were under the covers?"

"Sex."

"Nothing more?"

"Of course not. It was mutually beneficial."

"Just like when you cop a feel—"

"I don't cop—"

"Or when we sit and talk for hours about everything _but_ our work—"

"It's cold comfort—"

"Or when you go out of your way to keep me safe, on the inside and out—"

"I need you mentally focused—"

"Or when you just hold me for hours, without sex, without work, without any gain for either of us…when you bury your face in my neck and stroke my hair, telling me your deepest secrets that make you vulnerable to me…and you repeatedly tell me, and even Frank, that I have a deeper meaning to you than anything else in your life." She closed in on him so that her chest was touching his. She reached down and took his left hand in hers, raising it for him to see. "You wear your fake wedding ring every day," she poignantly pointed out to him.

He swallowed hard and tugged his hand from hers. "It's the job. I prefer to stay in character."

"You've never been Jack Roberts behind closed doors. _Never_." It was startlingly quiet, the kind of quiet that happened in a scary movie right before something jumped out. "Face it: you're in a relationship with me," she established in a sing-song voice. "_And you like it_," she added with an impish grin.

"Fine," he finally permitted. "We're a couple. We're in a relationship. We're official. We'll go steady and dance at the prom. I'd give you my letter jacket if I had one," he mocked. "But this is still a job, a dangerous one at that. And it won't end well. There is no happiness to be had in this _relationship_," he argued, practically choking on the word.

"For you, apparently." She pressed her hands to his chest to feel his heart beat and reassure herself that he was real and that this year had not been a bizarre dream. "What about my happiness? What if my happiness is being with you?"

"You call what we have happiness?" he dryly chuckled.

"It's different, but it fits. It's right."

That caught him by surprise for some reason. It seemed that saying their relationship was a "fit" was like a married couple saying that they each felt the comfort of an old pair of shoes: they fit and they fit the right way.

"You don't get a say."

"But you do?"

"No. Neither of us do. All of this has been out of our hands since before we even met."

* * *

Their week was spent wrapped in each other's arms and reminiscing about their times together, the good, the bad, and the ugly. On the last day there, Jackson decided it was time that they pay a visit to the lake. He had jogged by it several times, but one time was in the poor light of dusk and the other times had been in the dead of night.

"Why do I have to come along on this field trip?" Lisa whined. Jackson held her hand while she stepped over a fallen tree.

"I'm scared to be alone in the big bad woods. You never know what will happen out here!" He spun around and picked her up over his shoulder. It didn't take a scientist to figure out where this was heading. While she was kicking and hitting his back with her fists, he somehow managed to pull off her shoes and throw them aside.

"Don't you dare! _Don't you_—" Her warning was cut off when Jackson threw her off the small grassy cliff a few feet above the water. He kicked off his own shoes and jumped in the water after her. When he came back to the surface for air, Lisa was waiting to slap and splash him. "You asshole!"

He chuckled and enjoyed the moment, not ashamed of how proud he was of himself. "You need to lighten up," he diagnosed. She was about to complain further when his mouth captured hers and his arms held her hostage in the warm water. She moaned into him and he took that as an invitation. Her arms encircled his neck. He reached under the surface of the water and started seeking the zipper to her blue jeans.

"What are you—" she muttered between kisses.

"It's the end of the road for us. Don't you have a bucket list?" he inquired quickly before finally going under water to rob her of her jeans. He broke the surface and tossed them to shore, followed a few seconds later by his own jeans and t-shirt.

"_You _have a bucket list?" she repeated disbelievingly. "And even better, the list includes skinny dipping with me?"

Jackson tugged at the bottom of her t-shirt, but she held it down with her arms. "No," she insisted resolutely. It took Jackson a moment to process that she had only revealed her scar to him in the sanctity of the bedroom, typically with dim or completely absent light. Now they were in the great outdoors in broad daylight. There was no one around to see, yet it felt oddly public. He hadn't anticipated this response and now that he was in the situation, Jackson felt like a complete jerk.

"It's me," he whispered, his hand rubbing the back of her neck to help her feel safe and protected. "There's no one else—just you and me," he assured her.

"I'll see it. And you'll see it."

"You'll look in my eyes and see nothing else," he ordered reassuringly. "And I'll look at you and see only you."

The sound of the lake moving lazily and the rustling of the leaves made Lisa glance up at the top of the trees. She opened her arms, giving Jackson the invitation to take off her shirt. He took the soaked material and threw it with the rest of their discarded clothing. Jackson's hand claimed her chin, pulling her attention to him. "Your body is strong and beautiful. It's yours and mine alone."

Lisa nodded, both in understanding and obedience. The mood had started out so light and had now become so dark. "You'll do anything to get into my pants," she teased.

Jackson smiled like a Cheshire Cat. "Actually, I'll do anything to get you out of your pants," he corrected.

She splashed him.

* * *

After an hour of goofing around like crazy teenagers, the two came to shore in only their drenched undergarments. "This was a brilliant plan," Lisa ridiculed him as she collected her soaked clothes that hadn't dried in the least. "I suppose we have to walk back to the house like this."

Jackson picked up his balled-up, waterlogged shirt. "Or we could go over to the picnic basket and towel off," he commented casually.

Lisa smiled broadly. "You planned this, all of this?"

He shrugged it off and started walking toward where he had hidden their picnic site.

"I don't suppose you brought any dry clothes," Lisa wished as she dried the excess water from her skin before using the towel to squeeze it from her hair.

"Where's the fun in that?" He sat down on the large blanket that was spread out on the grass. The food basket was just to his left.

"You're right," she concurred. "Who doesn't love sitting in wet underwear in the middle of the woods during an impromptu picnic?"

"That's the spirit," he commended, watching as Lisa's svelte body sat down deliberately close to him. They both looked forward, taking in the beauty of nature. Given their lives before all of this, they seldom had the time to appreciate, much less experience, nature in such a firsthand way. The birds were chirping, mystery insects were making their individual respective sounds, and the lake's water gently lapped against the green shore. Beautiful white flowers grew in abundance in the woods, wild and unhampered.

Jackson's eyes were drawn back to Lisa when he realized that she was unhooking her bra. "You're not the only one with a bucket list," she purred.

* * *

They spent the day at the lake showing the local animal population how it should be done. Their movements were slow and deliberate. Inhibitions were forgotten, trust was given, and a rhythm uniquely their own was discovered after so many attempts over so many months. They remained naked under the sun, protected from the world only by one another's arms for most of the day. Their bodies were usually joined either in the moment or in the calm after in which neither wanted to break their connection. Few words were said, but stories were exchanged as their bodies shared hopes and fears, and pasts and futures, all in a present that probably should never have been in the first place.

* * *

That evening, Jackson and Lisa returned to the house to prepare for the next morning. They were exhausted and sore, but both were content as they went through the house, picking up after themselves and packing their belongings. Every now and then, Lisa felt Jackson staring at her and she would smile shyly. Her smile had regained its endearing glow, the same glow that he had seen when she had opened up to him at the bar in the airport seven years ago.

Jackson's cell phone vibrated. He hadn't been sure if the farm house would be able to receive a signal, but he definitely had his answer now. He looked up and spotted Lisa cleaning the kitchen. "Hey, Leese, I'm going to go double check the lake—make sure we got everything," he hollered into the kitchen.

"Alright," she trustingly responded.

Jackson left the house and answered the call. "Yes?" He walked as quickly as he could into the woods behind the house, hoping he was out of sight and hearing range.

"Are things in order?"

"They are."

"Any problems?"

"None."

"Good. I look forward to resolving our business."

The phone line went dead and Jackson ended the call on his side. He ran his hands through his hair anxiously as he paced back and forth. He dialed a number and waited for the answer.

"King," came the now familiar voice over the line.

"There's been a change of plans," Jackson told him decisively. "You're not getting anything from me and you're not getting Lisa Reisert."

There should have been a moment of shocked hesitation on Agent King's part, but it was almost as if he had anticipated the double-cross. "What the hell are you playing, Rippner?"

Jackson squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them hard with his thumb and index finger. "Lisa Reisert is going to get what she deserves."

"That's unacceptable. We had a deal. I arrange for your pardon and—"

"Cut the crap, King. We both know that was just the line your people tell my kind of people. You're not getting her and you're not getting me."

"So you're picking the bad guys over the good guys?"

"I'm picking me."

"And throwing Lisa Reisert to the wolves. They will _kill _her, Rippner. If there is any shred of human decency in you, you'll—"

Jackson laughed. "I'll what? Do the right thing?" He scoffed. Then he sighed. Then he paced. Then he ran his hand through his hair again. And paced again. And put his palm to his forehead. And closed his eyes. He finally stood still, his head calm and clear. "Joe Reisert is retired from the Company. Secretary of Homeland Security Charles Keefe was Company too."

This stunned King into a few moments of silence. "Joe Reisert, as in father of Lisa Reisert?"

"One and the same."

"Does she know this?"

"I give you the name of the Secretary of Homeland Security and the best you can do is worry about the potential for a domestic fallout between father and daughter? And you wonder why I'm taking my chances with the bad guys."

"Give up Lisa," King pleaded. "She was your hostage, but now she's a target for everyone. Don't gamble away the life of an innocent woman."

Jackson had heard enough of this. Lisa had lied to him. Betrayed him. Destroyed him. But worst of all, Lisa Reisert had never trusted him. It was time. She had to learn that every decision came with a consequence.

"She'll get what she deserves. Don't worry. I'll see to it."

* * *

**TBC…**


	14. Ch 13: The House That Jackson Built

**Chapter 13: The House That Jackson Built**

* * *

**July, 2012**

They had only been back at the house for two days, but Jackson was ready for another vacation. Lisa had gone on a manic cleaning spree when they returned, so naturally her compulsion meant that he had to work as well. After a day and a half of scouring the inside of the house, Lisa had finally migrated to the yard to attack the weeds in her outdoor flower beds while she put Jackson on mowing duty. He quickly charged through his assignment and then disappeared into the greenhouse, claiming that he was going to tend to her enclosed plants. It was a partial truth, as he did do a little "tending" here and there, but for the most part, he sat under one of the tables and hid from her in case she decided to build an addition to the house before nightfall or do something else insane. He knew why she was keeping herself busy and why her busywork had to be cleaning, but he wasn't in the mood.

He was in stand-by mode as his last minute plans constantly lingered in his mind.

* * *

After Lisa had finally rid the flower bed on the kitchen side of the house of weeds and rearranged the dirt to her satisfaction, she planted some white trillium flowers that she had brought back from the farm in Virginia. She had found quite a few wild patches of them on the property and the angular three-petaled flower was so unusually shaped yet oddly beautiful that she had to have some for herself. As she guided the last flower beneath the soil and started securing it with her hands, she felt her heart constrict in sorrow at the idea that this white wildflower seemed almost like a flower for a grave.

Anxiety loomed over her as Death lay in wait for them.

"How was the trip?" A startled yelp escaped Lisa's lips as she fell back onto the ground. Anna was instantly by her side to help her stand up. "I'm so sorry! I didn't realize that you were so into it."

Lisa brushed the dirt off of her bottom and her knees. "No, no, it's fine. I was," Lisa began, rolling her eyes illustratively, "somewhere else." Lisa half-expected Frank to be at Anna's side since his vulnerable wife was in enemy territory, but he was nowhere to be found.

Anna grinned and nodded knowingly. "I guess it's true: Virginia is for lovers."

Lisa blushed in a moment that mixed her real life with her character. "How are things?" She knew how things stood with Frank, but she wanted to hear Anna's perspective on his sudden coldness toward his friends.

"He's been a little down lately," Anna cryptically stated. "He just celebrated his second year of retirement a few weeks ago and I think he's feeling old and useless. You know men. If they can't control the world, they feel like they shouldn't even be in the world."

"I think I know exactly what you mean," Lisa corroborated, observing Jackson over Anna's shoulder as he approached them.

"Anna," he greeted, wrapping an arm around her back in an open hug for a small, friendly exchange.

She patted his hand where it rested on her shoulder. "Jack, how are you?"

"_Fantastic_! Frank at home?" he asked as he moved away from Anna and toward his fake wife.

"Yeah," Anna replied. "Maybe you can bring him back to life. He hasn't even tinkered around in his shop for weeks."

Jackson smiled and nodded understandingly. He kissed Lisa on the cheek. "I'll go say 'hey,'" he told both of them before taking a few steps backwards and turning for Frank's house.

* * *

Jackson watched Frank stare him down through the window before he even made it across the street, and once Jackson reached the sidewalk, Frank had the front door open.

"You've got some balls," Frank spat at him, opening the door all the way. "_Get in here_," he barked without any pretense.

Jackson smirked smugly and did as instructed. Frank shut the door and locked it. Anna didn't have her key with her since Frank was in the house, so if something happened, she wouldn't be able to get in and possibly find herself in trouble.

Jackson shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I need your help."

"I take it back. Hugging my wife after you threatened to kill her doesn't qualify you as having balls. _Asking for help_ after threatening to kill her—now that gives you balls." Frank crossed his arms across his broad chest and waited for whatever Jackson had to say. He was sure it was going to be good.

"I have a plan, but in order for the plan to work, I'm going to need some supplies."

Frank shrugged indifferently. "Then go buy them."

"Not these supplies. These items are the types of things that people on FBI wanted lists don't stroll into police and army surplus stores to buy."

"Order online," Frank proposed, not budging.

Jackson shifted his weight and exhaled softly. "No can do. It's something that would raise flags that shouldn't be raised for us."

"For you. She's innocent," Frank corrected him.

"She's in just as much danger as I am. If I get caught, so will she."

Frank uncrossed his arms and put his hands on his hips authoritatively. "What's this master plan of yours?"

Jackson made a small hissing sound. "Can't say."

"'Can't,'" Frank echoed. "You mean 'won't.'"

"That too. You know, Frank," Jackson began as he made himself at home on the loveseat while Frank stiffly sat down in his usual upholstered chair. "I think it is in your best interest to get over this judgmental attitude and help me."

Frank chuckled. "I love how you can threaten me with such ease and arrogance. Now why would it be in my best interest?" he probed, more out of curiosity than weakness.

"You're an ex-cop. Buying this stuff wouldn't draw any attention to you because I'm sure you know people. And if that doesn't convince you, then here's one: the faster I resolve my problem, the faster I'm no longer your problem."

"What do you need?"

* * *

When Jackson left Frank's house, Lisa was in the process of slowly walking Anna home. The two parted ways and Jackson took his place at Lisa's side, subtly sliding his hand into hers. She beamed at him in an approving response and his eyes twinkled in a way that she hadn't seen in a long time.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw Frank glaring at them out the window, his gruff and disgruntled expression reminding her of an overprotective father. She remembered all the times that she believed her own father was overprotective. Now, after all the information she had pieced together, it seemed that he had been demoted from overprotective to merely protective—if even that. She had been resentful at first of her father's choices and actions, but now she was apathetic. What was done was done. She knew her father loved her dearly, but love had no place in business. Jackson had made similar statements countless times, and upon learning of her father's impact on her life, it suddenly made sense.

Jackson opened the front door of their house and gestured for Lisa to enter first. She headed straight for the kitchen sink while he locked the door. "You're both alive, so I assume it went well," she commented as she washed her hands.

"Frank was simply overjoyed to see me." He joined Lisa at the sink and started washing his hands as she dried hers on the towel.

"What did you talk about?" she quizzed as she passed him the towel.

He shrugged it off. "Things."

"'_Things_,'" she repeated slowly, dragging out the word so it would hang in the air over them.

Jackson briefly wondered why everyone was repeating his words to him today. "Yeah, _things_," he insisted. He tossed the towel down and headed for the dining room with a persistent and determined Lisa hot on his heels.

"And would those 'things' involve any more death threats?"

"Nope," he said while collecting a scattered pile of papers on the table into a neat stack. "Actually, Frank's going to help us. We need some stuff and he's going to get it for us."

Lisa crossed her arms suspiciously. "Out of the kindness of his heart?"

Jackson stopped what he was doing for a moment and narrowed his eyes in mock contemplation. "More appropriately, out of the kindness of me reimbursing him with cash."

"What are you buying?"

"Supplies. We're leaving Tuesday."

Lisa scoffed. "_Tuesday_?" Repetition yet again. "Thanks for the heads-up." She had two days to prepare herself for a confrontation that would forever change her world and possibly end it.

"I didn't even want to tell you at all," Jackson declared, backing up from the table to lean against the now-iconic wall. "I don't want to freak you out by letting you think too much about this. We need to just do it. We're ready. Let's do it."

She shook her head. "Great pep talk, Coach." She pushed aside the short strands of hair that refused to stay in her ponytail. "I guess I need to start packing up this place—"

"Don't bother," he interjected. "If we're not dead, we'll have time to take care of it ourselves." Lisa shot him a strange look. "What?"

"That's a weird thing for you to say," she noted. "I figured you would insist that we close this place down, tie up all loose ends, clean up the trail and all that."

Jackson shrugged. He felt like that was his only response to anything anymore. Everything in his life right now was nothing more than something he would shrug to, offering an uncaring "eh" or "whatever" because it all seemed to lose meaning more and more every single day.

"The odds say it won't matter. We'll be dead anyway. I'm going to go do some laundry. Want me to wash your stuff?" he spoke casually, as if impending death and laundry were of equal importance on his agenda.

Lisa was rendered speechless by his lack of concern. "I'll take that as a no," he said, stepping by her to go do the brainless chore.

* * *

Tuesday around 3 a.m., Jackson's eyes opened wide and alert of their own accord. He was in work mode and his body was programmed for certain things, including waking at full attention and compartmentalizing his lack of sleep. He reached out and turned the bedside light on to the lowest setting so that the lamp would project a soft, hazy gold into the room. He had expected Lisa to be too anxious to sleep, but the mass of arms, legs, and rich golden brown hair that covered him at the moment proved that even under stress, she still managed to reach deep sleep. Jackson breathed in the fresh scent of her hair. He would miss that smell of apples under his nose at night. The porcelain skin that had once been an unhealthy shade of malnourished gray was now bright white—slightly sun-deprived, but healthy. He gently trailed his knuckles down her back. Goosebumps formed on the warm and inviting soft flesh.

"Mmmm," she moaned. Lisa twitched and Jackson took that as an invitation to wake her fully by brushing her hair back out of her face. "'s mornin'?" she mumbled into his chest.

"Yeah, a little after three," he told her. "We need to get ready and head out." Their two days of preparations, of talking about where they were going, what they were doing, whom they were doing it with, all left Lisa's head and a surge of panic seared through her for an instant. Her head jolted up and her fingers clutched at his chest.

"I can't do this," she confessed.

"You can," he reassured her. He sat up with his back against the headboard. "You'll be great," he promised her, stroking her hair. Jackson never lied, but they both knew his confidence in this plan was indeed a lie.

* * *

Jackson drove the Mustang while Lisa sat curled up against the passenger's door. Their trip had been disturbingly quiet, the kind of silence that actually made a heavy deafening sound. Lisa finally turned on the radio with the volume down low just so they could have background noise. In school, she had always listened to music at a low volume while working. It had kept her from going crazy with her own booming thoughts and she needed that now.

Lisa looked to Jackson. He was in Manager Mode, complete with a suit. As usual, he was without a tie and the top button was undone to reveal a glimpse at the white undershirt he wore beneath it all. He seemed oblivious to things that bothered her and she was fairly certain that he hadn't even noticed that she turned on the radio.

She resorted to blankly staring out the window, her eyes open, but her vision not taking in anything that fell in her line of sight. She felt hollow, as if her body was in one room and her consciousness was in another. This was all so surreal and it was happening. There was no going back and no escape. All of those hours studying, thinking, recalling, brainstorming, theorizing, scribbling, correcting, planning, writing—it all came down to this. If every job had this much prep work, she could understand how Jackson had snapped so easily during the Red Eye flight. She was probably the straw and he was the camel.

* * *

The next day, Lisa finally realized that they were going the wrong way. Instead of heading south, they were driving southwest. She had seen all the highway signs, but she had never paid attention to their words, and Jackson had never told her anything about where they were going. She had merely assumed they were heading straight to Florida, so the "Welcome to Tennessee" sign was a little shocking, but the "Welcome to Mississippi" sign was even more of a shocker. In Tennessee, she reasoned that Jackson was avoiding the direct route or was opting for more rural areas. When they crossed the line into Mississippi, however, she finally spoke up.

"Geography has never been my strong suit," she began, "but I'm pretty sure that Florida is in the other direction." She turned up the air conditioning. She was a nervous wreck about all of this to start with, but going in a direction that she didn't know about upset her a bit more.

"I have some business to take care of," Jackson vaguely explained.

"What kind of business?"

"Personal."

Lisa recalled Jackson's story about his family. His mother was born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi. Jackson was on his way to what was more than likely going to be his death, so it was only natural—only _human_—that he would want to return to his roots one last time.

"Have you been to see her lately? I mean, before you found me?" Jackson had never told her in detail what he did between prison and his fateful rendezvous with her one year ago.

"Who?" he asked, utterly baffled.

"Your mother. I assume she's buried here," she said, referring to the state rather than the unknown small town they were currently passing by on I-55.

Jackson finally turned to acknowledge her. "Why would I?"

Lisa felt like she was talking to a child who didn't understand death and cemeteries. "She's your mother. Don't you visit her grave?"

"No," he responded matter-of-factly. Despite the darkness inside the car, Jackson could make out a disapproving expression, tinged with pity, on Lisa's face. "Save your pity," he ordered her with a harsher tone than he had used in a while. "There's nothing wrong with that. It's a rotted body in the ground with a concrete slab on top telling me who it was. Why would I visit that?"

Lisa's mouth gaped open. "She's your _mother_, Jackson!"

"It's a box of bones and dust."

* * *

An hour later around midnight, they arrived in the city of Ridgeland, just outside of Jackson. Since they had slept in the cramped Mustang the previous night, they planned to spend this night in a hotel. They found a small Holiday Inn Express and Lisa checked them in while Jackson remained in the car.

With Lisa inside handling the paperwork and payment, he took a moment to compose himself. She had completely blindsided him with the issue of his mother's grave. She had no right to assert herself into his personal business, using against him information that he had shared with her in confidence. It was to help her understand him, not for her to use against him or to dictate his actions or emotions. Jackson was not a moron; he knew that she meant to help him. Unfortunately, directing his mind to such thoughts was not wise at this point in the game.

He was so lost in his own problems that he didn't even realize Lisa was already back in the car with the room key. "Jackson?"

He flinched when she reached for his hand. Jackson evaded her touch and instead returned his hands to the wheel and the gear shift so he could drive them to their room.

* * *

The next morning, Lisa awoke to Jackson entering the room with a bag of breakfast goodies from the hotel's free selection. It wasn't much, just coffee, orange juice, biscuits, and some fruit, but it was enough.

"Did you sleep any?" she questioned with concern, noticing how the whites of his eyes were starting to share a striking resemblance to roadmaps. He had spent the entire night hugging his side of the bed, particularly the edge, with his back to her. She missed being wrapped in his arms and she knew not to take it personally, but she felt she was entitled to things that would help her mentally brace herself for the job rather than always having to accommodate his quirks. Then again, a lone wolf like Jackson probably felt the same way about her.

"We're going to the bank," he redirected, completely ignoring her question.

She took a sip of the harsh black coffee and grimaced at its bitterness. "Withdrawal or deposit box?"

"Box."

Lisa nodded. "Same plan as last time?"

Jackson mirrored her nod. "Your alias," he said, providing her with a fake license for the state of Mississippi. "And your key. It's going to be an inconspicuous envelope, so you won't need to worry about concealing it."

"What's in it?"

Jackson stiffened. "It's personal, Leese," he told her, his voice strained and uncomfortable.

Lisa sighed, disheartened that Jackson still kept her at arm's length regarding so many personal matters. He knew her life inside and out, and she even shared things with him that he wouldn't have known otherwise. She gave him full disclosure, but all he gave her was distrust and isolation. She reached out to him where he sat at the opposite corner on the foot of the bed and put her hand on his knee. "Let me help you. Let me in," she begged.

"Stop doing this," he pleaded. "I have to handle this and I have to keep my mind focused. I can't do that if you're in there playing Dr. Phil with my memories. Just drop it, okay. Drop it."

* * *

The bank was easy, perhaps too easy. Everyone knew everyone in the bank, and as the lone outsider, they greeted her with an enthusiastic chorus of "Hi, how are you?" and enough small talk to make her feel like she was in the presence of long lost relatives. She had forgotten the difference in the personality of the Deep South versus Miami or Connecticut.

After a few minutes of waiting on the manager to finish with a customer, Lisa was escorted to the "back room" less than ten feet away from the main counter. The chubby, middle-aged manager hobbled out of the room, her high heels clicking away. When Lisa could no longer hear their sound, she retrieved the box and opened it. It was empty save for a medium size manila envelope that was sealed shut only by the closed metal prong on the back. Lisa couldn't fit it into her purse and Jackson had made it seem like it wasn't life or death, so she walked out the front door with it in her hand.

In the car, she wordlessly passed it over to Jackson. "You opened it," he accused without looking at her or the envelope. Lisa scoffed and yanked the envelope out of his hand so she could flip it to the back. The metal closure was perfectly flat and stiff, revealing that it had not been opened since Jackson had originally sealed it. "My apologies," he muttered insincerely as he slid the envelope down the driver's door compartment.

"Where now?" Lisa asked as she put on her sunglasses. She gazed out her window to avoid him. If he wanted to be temperamental, that was his business, but she wasn't going to put up with his moodiness.

"Florida." He stared her down from behind his sunglasses. "It's time to pay Daddy a visit."

* * *

**August, 2012**

Lisa and Jackson spent four days monitoring her father and his house. No one from the Company was watching. Her father hadn't done anything out of the ordinary. Lisa insisted that the coast was clear, that it was safe to confront him, but Jackson still heard warning bells in his head. He didn't share his intuition with Lisa, but she could tell from his cool reserve that he felt something was afoot.

"Take this," Jackson ordered, snapping the mag back into Lisa's handgun. He passed it to Lisa, who regarded it as if it were Typhoid Mary's lollipop. "You never know."

"He's my _father_, Jackson," she insisted with a hint of warning in her voice.

"He's _Company_, Lisa," Jackson mimicked her tone. "Even if Daddy truly is the light of your life, he might have some friends nearby that we missed and I want you prepared for anything. Now take it." Lisa scowled and pouted, but she reluctantly took the weapon. "Thank you," he diplomatically told her. "Follow my lead and don't speak out of turn."

She should have felt insulted by his words, but she knew what he meant. Jackson didn't want her sharing their plan with her father. He wanted her to listen with her ears, not her mouth. He wanted her to think in her mind, not on her lips. He wanted her to plan with her head, not with her heart. Jackson wanted her to remember that it was the two of them versus the world and they had proven their trust only to each other. Her father had violated her trust not once, but twice before and Jackson wasn't about to let it happen a third time.

The two parked several blocks away and had to walk down the sidewalk, hand in hand like lovers, dressed in their dark—but not suspiciously so—clothes while avoiding major light sources that would illuminate them clearly for witnesses. When they reached her father's house, Lisa took the lead and brought Jackson in through the carport around back. He picked the lock and they both considered it the same as a key because it was all in the family. The sound of the Weather Channel could be heard as plain as day and that made Lisa stop and hold her hand up to halt Jackson. She shook her head, silently communicating: _something's not right_. Her father listened to his television loudly enough to hear it, but he didn't blast it to this point.

The lights went out. Lisa felt movement behind her and realized that Jackson had slipped away. She pulled her gun from the back waistband of her jeans and aimed it in the darkness. She heard a hand hitting the wall to flip the light switch. The lights came back on and Lisa found herself face to face with her father's gun.

"_Lisa?_" He sounded surprised to see her. He was obviously expecting someone else.

She gulped. "Dad," she replied evenly.

"Leese, honey, are you here alone?" Each still held the other at gunpoint.

"No," Jackson answered behind him, bringing his knife around Joe Reisert's neck.

"Put the gun down, Dad," Lisa commanded as she placed her free hand atop her father's weapon and pushed it toward the floor. Jackson confiscated the gun from him. She put her own gun in her waistband again.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" Joe asked, his eyes urgently taking in every aspect of his daughter's appearance as he looked for even the slightest hint of distress.

"With the exception of the Company wanting me dead, I'm swell."

Her father frowned and held out his open hands in surrender. Jackson removed the knife. Joe turned around to look at Jackson for the first time since shooting him seven years prior. "Jackson," he said, addressing the younger man by his first name since that was the only name Company Managers were allowed to have. It was their code and Joe abided by it still.

"Joe," Jackson returned. Jackson was waiting for the screaming, the hitting, the threats, the gunshots, the—_whatever_—that Joe wanted to throw at him for all the foul, evil deeds Jackson had done to his daughter then and now, but it never came. Instead, Joe extended his hand for Jackson to shake.

"Thank you," he said, waiting for Jackson to accept his handshake. Both Jackson and Lisa were stunned by Joe's gesture, but Jackson recovered and shook his proffered hand. "I'm glad I was right about you."

And for twelve seconds, there was peace on Earth. No one dared to breathe. No cricket chirped. No baby cried. The wind ceased to blow. Everything came to an abrupt, unprecedented halt at the words...

_I'm glad I was right about you._

Jackson and Lisa let his words sink in as they struggled to process their implications. For Jackson, it made sense of many variables that he had not been able to qualify, but for Lisa, it opened an entirely new can of worms.

"…'Glad you were right?'" Lisa repeated.

Joe exhaled. "Oh, sweetheart. There's a lot you don't know."

* * *

Joe turned off the television before going through the house to drop all the curtains. Meanwhile, Jackson conducted his own security evaluation of the premises by double-checking all of the doors and windows, and making sure there were no bugs or other surveillance equipment hidden in the house. Lisa stood in the living room, her eyes roaming over the furniture arrangement as if seeing it for the first time.

Her father came to her side. "Leese, honey, what's the matter?"

"I see it now," she mumbled under her breath as she examined the furniture. "The curtains are thick. The sofa and chairs are at indirect angles to the windows. The lamps are closer to the windows so whoever is sitting near one won't cast a large shadow or silhouette through the curtain. The backs of the chairs are opposite the window so you can see what's coming and take cover if necessary." She looked at her father with an enlightened expression. "I'm right. I know I'm right."

Jackson entered the room. Lisa wasn't sure if he had heard her or not, but he seemed unimpressed. Joe's version of interior decorating was a more optimistic version of Jackson's, a version that did not compromise the comfort of a home in the name of safety.

"You trained her well," Joe complimented Jackson. "I assume you're satisfied with whatever you found or didn't find in my home?"

"For now," was Jackson's clipped reply.

"Next time you're in my home, you ask before you start wandering around, got it?" Jackson glared at him, meeting Joe's eyes with an intensity that clearly expressed how undaunted he was by the older man's pathetic caveat. Jackson redirected his gaze toward Lisa, who was shaking her head, silently mouthing _don't_ to him. She was right. They had more important things to worry about right now than a grudge match.

Jackson and Lisa sat on the couch while Joe remained standing. "Coffee?"

"Tea, please," Lisa answered on behalf of the couple. She and Jackson drank coffee, but this was definitely a time for tea. They were both so adrenaline-pumped that coffee was the last thing they needed.

Joe looked from Lisa to Jackson, and then back to Lisa. His Lisa had been a coffee drinker. He nodded and went to the kitchen to boil the water.

"What do you think?" Lisa whispered to Jackson.

He smirked grimly. "I think we're going to want something a hell of a lot stronger than tea or coffee by the time this night is over."

A few minutes later, Joe returned with peach green tea. He sat down in his recliner, perched on the edge of his seat rather than making himself comfortable. "Where have you two been all this time?"

Jackson responded before Lisa had a chance. "We have a safe house set up. It's secure."

"In Florida?"

"_It's secure_," Jackson repeated, leaving no room for further discussion.

The three sat uncomfortably together, no one daring to look at another until someone had the nerve to speak again. Her father took that as his cue. He sat back in his chair. "Where to start?" he mused. Jackson leaned forward, his hands held together over his knees as if in prayer while he peered attentively at the floor.

"I have a thought. Let's start with you being glad that you were right about Jackson," Lisa suggested. The two men exchanged a subtle look, as if wondering which one would keep to the Company code and which one would violate all of his training by confessing his sins. Joe pushed his glasses up and scratched the back of his head. "You didn't shoot to kill last time because you knew he was Company, so apparently that's not what you just found out you were right about."

"It's not a coincidence that you ended up on the Red Eye flight together." Jackson sat up, suddenly interested in this conversation. Joe hesitated, uncertain of how to continue. "What do you two know?"

Although Joe addressed the question to Lisa, she kept her mouth closed. Joe realized then that Jackson had taken charge of this operation and Lisa was on guard. He was grateful for that. A paranoid daughter was a safe daughter.

"We know you're Company," Jackson stated the obvious. "We know that your involvement with the Company has brought certain…" Jackson's eyes drifted toward Lisa as he gave consideration to his word choice. "…_events_ into Lisa's life."

Lisa slammed her mug onto the coffee table in front of her and tea spilled out at the hard movement. "I was raped because of you and you knew about it," she blurted out without any effort to maintain appearances. Lisa shot a quick apologetic look to Jackson, but he knew she had to speak her mind on this part at least. "And if that weren't enough, I ended up on a plane as a pawn in a criminal game…once again, because of you."

Her father put his fingers to his temple as he took a few deep breaths. "They needed the Lux Atlantic hotel and you happened to be the manager. They wanted Keefe—"

"Because he's Company," Jackson provided.

Joe nodded, now looking slightly disappointed at Jackson and Lisa for knowing maybe too much. "They wanted Keefe and you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"She wouldn't have been there if Keefe hadn't favored her," Jackson clarified. "He always stayed at Lisa's hotel because he's always been fond of her, 'always' as in since childhood. Yeah, we know about that too."

Joe forced a smile. "I see you two have done your homework and a little extra for bonus points."

"We'll discuss the rights to the book deal later," Lisa intervened impatiently.

Joe was a bit taken aback by Lisa's sarcasm and candor. She had been growing into this person for six years, but now she was more confident in her cynicism and more comfortable in her jaded darkness. He couldn't blame her, really. However, despite this, there was a suppressed, perhaps even subliminal warmth in Lisa that he had not seen since before the flight. That spark was alive again, but just barely, and it was concealed behind layers of protective covering. He could only figure that her time with Jackson had given her a chance to resolve the inner issues that had caused her to build such impenetrable stone walls around herself.

"They wanted Keefe," she continued. "Keefe was at the Lux Atlantic. I was the manager. What does this have to do with the flight not being a coincidence? Did they kill—"

"No!" Joe exclaimed, holding his hand up to silence Lisa. "No, I promise you, your grandmother's death was of completely natural causes."

"Then what—"

"I picked Jackson for the job."

Both Jackson and Lisa's jaws dropped open in accidentally synchronized shock.

"For those of you playing along at home, raise your hand if you saw that one coming," Jackson quipped. "But you were retired then," he seriously declared, his question lurking underneath his words.

"So how did I arrange it?" Joe asked aloud for him. Jackson nodded once. "I remembered you and a lot of the other Managers. I knew some of them weren't all there in the head and others had some pretty messed-up ways of handling assignments, particularly female assignments."

Lisa's face turned red, anger flaring in her with every passing second. Lisa had discussed so many things about her father's life and career with Jackson. None of this was new to her. But what affected her so much now was how neutral her father was about everything. He was telling her a story not unlike how he told her "Goldilocks and the Three Bears" as a little girl.

One Manager was too crazy, another Manager was too violent, but the last Manager was _just_ right…

"I knew about the Keefe job from the moment he took the Homeland Security position, but when I heard whisperings about it happening at the Lux Atlantic, I knew that Lisa would be in the middle of it. I couldn't get you out of it," he spoke directly to Lisa, "and I couldn't avoid it. I couldn't stop it. The best I could do was make sure someone was there who would be professional so you could live through it unharmed."

"But you would have died," Lisa pointed out. "If I had cooperated, Keefe would have died, but if I hadn't cooperated, you would have died."

"But you would have lived," her father reminded her. "And I had to find someone who would honor the specifics of the assignment. Someone who wouldn't improvise. Someone who wouldn't lay a finger on you."

Lisa laughed loudly and inappropriately. Jackson faced her with what she knew was his hurt expression, but that made her laugh louder. "So you sent me someone who would snap and try to kill _both of us_? Not your finest hour, Dad," she judged, wiping tears from her eyes. She was overly emotional right now and she knew it. If she hadn't laughed hysterically, she probably would have sobbed inconsolably.

Joe shook his head and Jackson looked rather embarrassed at having his record criticized while simultaneously forcing all of them to relive that _unfortunate_ breakdown he experienced seven years ago.

"Jackson was the only Manager who had a perfect record for his jobs. He never instigated violence on his assignments. He got results. The jobs were always clean and efficient." Lisa watched Jackson's eyes take on a nostalgic sense of pride as he remembered the good side of what he once was. "And more than that, his personal record was something that caught my eye. He had no history of mental illness and he lived the life of a monk. He was asexual enough that I thought you'd be safe with him."

"'_Asexual?_'" Jackson interrupted indignantly. Lisa rolled her eyes. Joe shrugged, unapologetic for vocalizing the facts. "I've been having sex with your daughter for the last six months. That's _not_ asexual," he childishly spat.

"_Seriously_?" Lisa gasped. "We're going to talk about that now?"

"Just correcting the 'facts,'" Jackson assured her. "Continue," he instructed Joe.

Joe seemed like he wanted to vomit or strangle Jackson. Lisa was sure he would feel equally better after doing either one.

"My daughter had been assaulted and I wasn't going to let a sexual predator torment her. You seemed safe enough, so I suggested you for the job."

"How?" was Lisa's question.

"He has contacts," Jackson concluded. "You don't just hear this kind of stuff. You still have contacts on the inside. You're still involved and up to date."

Joe closed his eyes and popped his jaw forward and to the side, a habit he had during times of stress. He contemplatively rubbed his lips with his fingertips before speaking. "I have a few contacts here and there. That's how I found out about the Lux Atlantic. That's how I found out about the details of the job. That's how I made sure you got the job. I only hear stuff that is relevant to me and mine."

"Who?" Jackson pressed.

"Someone who always had dignity and took jobs for the right reasons."

"Samuel," Jackson instantly answered.

"Samuel," Joe concurred. "He knew about what happened with the assault a few years before and he gave me a heads up that she was going to be targeted again on a job. I asked him about you and he agreed that you were the safe choice. You can imagine our surprise when you flipped out like you did."

"Samuel worked his magic and I was given the assignment. My last assignment ever ended up being exactly that." Jackson stopped and silence filled the room. Lisa beheld her lover. He was sitting up straight, his hands once laced together were now clinched in a large singular fist. "Samuel died telling me to get to Lisa," Jackson prompted.

"He did. Last year, I was offered Tabula Rosa. All I had to—"

"I'm sorry," Lisa broke in, "but what's Tabula Rosa?"

"Company talk for a fresh break—clean record, they'll leave you in peace. It's freedom and it's a rare reward that few receive," Jackson explained softly as her father nodded in agreement with his definition.

Joe continued. "They offered me freedom in exchange for taking the new Keefe job. They figured that since I knew him during our Company days and that we were again connected through the incident seven years ago that I would have a better chance at accomplishing the mission. I knew I was going to say no, so I warned Samuel. He told me he couldn't protect you, but he knew someone who could and would…" Joe trailed off.

"I didn't even know I would at first," Jackson admitted. Lisa was startled by this revelation. "Before I came to you, I didn't know what to do or even what I wanted to do. But when I saw you again," he said gently, earnestly, "I knew I had no choice in the matter." Lisa's heart skipped a beat. She wished she and Jackson were alone so they could discuss that, but now wasn't the time. They were on a job and that had to come first.

"Samuel knew that too," Joe revealed. "He told me that he was going to have you protect Lisa and I hit the roof. He swore to me that my gut instinct about you was right, that you were the man for the job, for any job, because you'd get it done. He said Lisa would be safe with you because she was a job, but she was also…_more _than that," Joe said, forcing the words out of his mouth. "I had suspected something like that was what made you go crazy on Leese, but I thought I was reading too much into it. Beggars can't be choosers, so I agreed and asked him to make it happen. I took a gamble that we were both right about you, that you were capable of feelings and you just happened to have the ones that would save my daughter. When I figured out that you two were on the run together, I knew that you'd protect my baby girl. I just had to keep my mouth shut and my head down."

"I can't believe this," Lisa proclaimed under her breath. "Any of this. I can't believe it." She rubbed the back of her clammy neck and fought to control the nausea that was starting to brew in the pit of her stomach. "You've been orchestrating everything."

"Not everything," Jackson attested, reaching out to touch her hand. Lisa intertwined her fingers with his and they gazed supportively at one another for a few moments, oblivious to Joe's presence or scrutiny. Jackson seldom practiced displays of affection outside of the bedroom and most certainly not in front of other people (with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Roberts' undercover relationship). This was a major step for Jackson, or perhaps it was a sign of things to come—or things not to come if they couldn't survive their impending Company showdown.

"I definitely didn't orchestrate _this_," Joe stated, his eyebrows raised high above his glasses as he glared in parental disapproval.

"You may not orchestrate everything, but you definitely have no trouble letting things happen." When Joe didn't react, Lisa realized he wasn't following her. "Mom," she told him harshly. "You let a Manager infiltrate our family and murder my mother."

"She knew the risks. We never talked about it, but she knew what I was and how dangerous it was. I told her to be careful about whoever she got involved with, but she didn't want to listen."

"She didn't know _to_ listen," Lisa argued. "She couldn't protect herself. That one is on you, Dad."

Joe didn't have anything else to say on that matter. He loved Lisa's mother dearly, even after their divorce, but what was done was done. Lisa and his sons were all that mattered to him now. "So what are you two doing here?"

Lisa turned her head away from her father and Jackson. Jackson watched her a few seconds before responding. "We're settling this with the Piper once and for all, but we need your help."

"What can I do?"

* * *

For another two hours, the trio discussed the plan in meticulous detail, particularly focusing on Joe's involvement. Once everyone knew his or her role, an awkward silence fell upon the room. Tension sparked in the air like a live electrical wire.

"Say something, Leese," Joe begged. "I can't stand this. You look at me like I'm a stranger."

"I need some water," she said abruptly. When she started for the kitchen, Joe followed in line behind her.

"I'm not ready to discuss any of this," Lisa told him as she filled a glass with cold water from the pitcher in the refrigerator.

"What if I'm ready to discuss this?"

"That's your problem." She set her glass in the sink and moved to walk away, but her father put out his arms to block her exit. He claimed her hands in his own against her wishes and she pouted like a child who wasn't in the mood for affection.

"Are you alright, Leese?" he wanted to know yet again.

"I'm fine."

"Has he…" Joe glanced over his shoulder and when he was satisfied that Jackson was still sitting on the couch and out of earshot, he tried again. "Has he…_forced_ you into anything?"

Lisa scoffed at the suggestion. "Everything is consensual," she assured him, sounding not unlike Jackson in her choice of detached words. "He takes better care of me than you did."

"Whatever anger you have at me over everything that has happened to you is nothing compared to how I feel about myself. Leese, sweetie," Joe began, softly touching her cheek and smoothing the loose, messy curls in her hair. "I've made a lot of bad decisions in my life, but I've done the best I could do. I love you so much, Leese," he promised her. She had seldom seen tears in her father's eyes, so seeing them now made her tear up as well.

"I know," she reluctantly confessed. "But I'm a big girl and I can take care of myself. You don't have to feel obligated to take care of me anymore."

Her father chuckled softly. "It's not an obligation when you love someone. I'd sacrifice anything for someone I love." Joe sniffed and hugged his daughter in a rigid, uncomfortable version of what used to be a great display of warmth and adoration. Lisa wasn't quite ready to resume their formerly healthy father-daughter relationship. She needed time to process everything and to heal before she could see her father as anyone other than a coward and a pawn. "Speaking of love," he shifted the discussion after they separated. "Do you love him?" he inquired unexpectedly.

Lisa looked away from her father's prying eyes. There was no way she was going to answer that.

"Okay, do you _trust_ him?" he asked instead. "This plan, this house of cards that Jackson's built, it's all coming down on him. Do you trust him enough to keep it from falling on you?"

Lisa remembered Jackson's advice. This man may be her father, but she couldn't be sure she was talking to her father and not the Company. Any information, personal or professional, that she gave to him could very well be used against her at some point.

"Do you?" she posed, answering his question with a question.

Joe didn't hesitate in responding: "As much as he trusts me."

Lisa was too focused on her father to see Jackson's intense death glare in their direction.

* * *

After bidding Joe goodnight, Lisa and Jackson returned to their hotel. Joe, meanwhile, turned off all the lights except the lamp next to his recliner. He picked up the cell phone from the small table beside his chair. He pressed a button and his contact's number started ringing.

The expected voice answered.

"Jackson Rippner plans to negotiate with the Company," Joe said as his burner phone altered his voice and blocked his number and location.

"How do you know?"

"That doesn't matter. What matters is that he is endangering Lisa Reisert and I'm not going to let that happen. You have to step in."

His contact chuckled dryly. "I don't have to do anything. You've done nothing for me except throw useless tidbits my way whenever you feel like it. What's in it for me?"

"I'll give you two Company agents," Joe vowed.

"I already have names," he said. "So thanks but no tha—"

"I didn't say names," Joe corrected him. "I said I'd give you the agents. I'll turn them over to you if you help save Lisa Reisert."

"Who are they?"

"I'm one."

"And the other?"

"Jackson Rippner."

The contact was quiet as he contemplated his options. "How do I know I can trust you?"

Joe pressed a button on his cell phone before speaking again. "Because I can't save my daughter alone," he said, his own natural, unmodified voice going through the phone.

"_Joe Reisert_?" asked a disbelieving FBI Agent James King.

* * *

At the hotel, Lisa and Jackson attempted to sleep, but it didn't go well for either party. Jackson ended up crawling out of bed to do push-ups. His mornings always commenced with sit-ups and push-ups, but he was going to break tradition and do some at night because he needed to do something…_anything_. It wasn't long before Lisa was out of bed as well. She flipped on the small bedside light.

"Sorry," Jackson apologized, holding himself in the up position for a few moments. His shirt was off and the smooth curves of his muscles were just starting to glisten with sweat.

"I was already awake," Lisa assured him. She started doing some stretches and a few simple yoga moves while Jackson continued his push-ups with aggressive enthusiasm.

"Do you trust my father?" she wondered casually, as if this sort of drama was just another ordinary part of a relationship.

Jackson again stopped his push-ups in the up position so he could answer her. "Nope," he chirped in a mock cheerful voice before dropping back into his exercise routine. "He was Company," Jackson panted out, this time not stopping to speak. "And he admits that he still has open lines of communication with them."

"You would too if Samuel were alive," Lisa countered.

"Maybe," he conceded, "but your father asked too many of the wrong questions. He's a Company man, like me, and we know which questions to ask and not ask. He asked about too many sensitive topics that could jeopardize both of us."

"Maybe he did it on purpose?" Lisa guessed as she stretched her arms over her head and bent down between her spread legs.

"To tip us off at something going on? I doubt it. He seemed like someone who took our ignorance and inexperience for granted and made mistakes under the belief that we wouldn't catch them."

Lisa stopped stretching. "You think he'll betray us?"

Jackson pushed himself off the floor to stand. "Do you?"

"He's my father," Lisa meekly responded.

Jackson put his hands on his hips. "I had a father too. Look how that turned out." A father who claimed to want the best for his son. A father who killed his son's mother. A father who was cold and dead. A father who died at his son's hands for all of the sins he committed. Their fathers were nothing alike, yet Lisa couldn't shake the nagging ideas that Jackson had planted in her mind. "Stop answering like a child and grow up. Do you trust Company man Joe Reisert?"

"My father loves me," she attempted to convince herself and Jackson.

"Do. You. Trust. Him?"

"As much as he trusts me."

Lisa's answer bothered him when it should have pleased him. She was definitely not the same woman he had known all this time and that disappointed him. He liked her goodness, her innocence, and her unintentional optimism amid her outer disenchantment with the world. She no longer seemed unreachable and Jackson wasn't sure if it was because she was lowering to his level or if he was rising to her level, or perhaps it was a blend of both.

"Leese," he began. Lisa stopped stretching and stood passively in place, waiting for what he had to say. He noticed how her eyes wandered across his chest and arms, surveying the scars that she had memorized in the darkness of the bedroom yet had seldom seen in the light. His outward imperfections were constant reminders of his failures and the ugliness that lurked just beneath the surface of his being.

"I—" he started, but sighed. The moment had passed and there was no going back. "Never mind," he insisted.

He could only hope that a chance presented itself before it was too late. She had to know the truth about him, even if it changed how she thought of him for the rest of her life.

* * *

The news covered the hurricane more every day and it was getting to the point where Lisa was sick of hearing about it. Since Hurricane Katrina ravaged Louisiana and the Mississippi Gulf Coast, meteorologists were obsessive about forecasting every little swirl in the Atlantic and the state governments of the south began their precautionary measures at least three days in advance of any potential storm threat.

Lisa asked Jackson to reconsider the time and date of the meet, or to just simply change the location, but he refused, citing this as the perfect place and time. He came to Miami before hearing about the storm with the intention of ending this, and now that he knew about the storm, the only change that would impact their plan was having one more element that could possibly aid them. The Company would no doubt prefer the symmetry of it all—Lisa, Jackson, the Lux Atlantic, August 19th—but Jackson was a fan of the storm serving as a distraction and possibly as a cover. After several last-ditch attempts to sway his decision, Lisa surrendered and agreed to the meet just before the hurricane made landfall. He made the arrangements one day when Lisa was out picking up dinner and he was tight-lipped about what happened when he made contact with his old employers. He assured her that all was well and she took him at his word.

For the last few days before the 19th, Lisa and Jackson had to hop from hotel to hotel to avoid arousing suspicion by staying in one place for too long a time. It was unpleasant, but she knew it had to be done. Most of the final arrangements had been made for the meet (with a few exceptions), so their time was typically spent either watching the seemingly apocalyptic weather reports or silently going about their own business. Jackson was closed off to the world as he prepared himself for the challenge ahead. Lisa clammed up in fear and dread as her own personal storm cloud grew darker and more powerful with each day, not unlike the incoming tropical event.

* * *

"…and then you simply slide it like you would any other card," Jackson explained, passing the iPhone back to Lisa. She carefully examined the new addition to it: a card cloner. It was an extension on the right side of her phone that would make an exact copy of any credit card, license, or ID that she slid through the thin scanner. "Are you ready?" he asked.

Lisa was wearing a ridiculously short black skirt with a tight-fitting white blouse and black suit jacket. Her hair was straightened and parted to help conceal her face while simultaneously contributing to her character's style. She was a businesswoman, powerful and confident, and everything from her hair to her four inch Louboutins reinforced that image. No one would see Lisa. No one would doubt her credibility. No one would suspect a thing.

"As ready as I'll ever be dressed like this," she replied as she stood up and carefully straightened her suit.

Jackson stood as well. His eyes predatorily scanned over her. He smirked to himself.

"What?" Lisa demanded, automatically reaching to pull down the back of her skirt. She tried to look over her shoulder to see how much of herself she had exposed, but she never saw anything that suggested she had embarrassed herself.

"Nothing. It's just…you look so incredibly hot right now."

Lisa cocked an eyebrow at him. "Either you have some kind of work chic fetish I didn't know about or you are really desperate…"

Jackson considered the questions for a moment. "Yes," he answered mysteriously as he put on his suit jacket over a plain dark blue t-shirt and jeans.

A naughty smile graced Lisa's bright red lips as she followed him to the car.

* * *

After twenty minutes of making small talk in Spanish with a taxi driver enjoying his breakfast, Jackson finally managed to pick the car keys off the man when he rushed to the bathroom after unknowingly downing a laxative-filled Coca-Cola. With the keys in hand and the driver occupied for the next hour at least, Jackson had time to pick up Lisa from the rendezvous point and complete the job with time to spare. The taxi would be returned to the café with several hundred dollars to cover its use and the driver's inconvenience.

Jackson jerked off his jacket and clumped it under his arm. He put on a baseball cap and his sunglasses so that he'd be unrecognizable yet in character for a taxi driver. As he approached the vehicle, he removed his cell phone and pressed a few buttons. He pulled on a pair of translucent rubber gloves to conceal his fingerprints. As he sat down in the cab, the cameras were disabled by his cell phone extension and could not record in the front or back seat.

Jackson drove a few blocks down to pick up Lisa from where she was waiting at Starbucks. It was the same Starbucks she had gone to with Josh during her awkward "not a date" date thing and even though it had been years, she had the sneaking suspicion that the baristas remembered her for ordering a plain, ordinary coffee.

"Are you clear on everything?" Jackson asked into the rearview mirror.

"Yes," Lisa responded to his reflection.

"Any questions about emergency procedures?"

"No."

"Do you remember your time windows?"

"Yes."

"Do you—"

"Jackson!" she interrupted sharply. He peered into the mirror at her again. "This isn't my first job," she reminded him.

He tried not to cringe at the way Lisa spoke about "the job." It was like listening to a recording of himself. He awkwardly nodded and adjusted the cap on his head. "This is our last assignment before the meet. I just don't want to screw it up."

He pulled the taxi into the circular drop-off at the lobby of the Lux Atlantic. "If anything gets screwed up, it's your fault," she deadpanned before stepping out of the taxi and taking a deep breath.

_The Lux Atlantic_. This place had become a monochromatic prison in her mind since the Red Eye flight, and now the massive structure seemed much smaller to her somehow. She rearranged the large purse on her shoulder and smoothed her hands over the back of her short skirt just in case. Confident in her appearance, she held her head up high and strutted into the hotel as if she belonged there. The facility was blanketed in cameras, but she knew every location and angle, and ultimately every blind spot. She knew when to turn her head in just the right way in order to avoid a direct encounter with a camera. One of their emergency procedures included what to do if she was in a situation that forced her to be filmed and she hoped to save that as a last resort only.

There was a distinct sense of organized chaos around the hotel this morning and anxiety filled the air so much that it even put Lisa on edge about the impending weather. With the voluntary evacuation window growing smaller and the mandatory evacuation looming nearer, all of the out-of-towners were packing up and getting out of the hotel as quickly as possible before traffic became an unmoving mass. As families nervously fluttered about in and out of the lobby, Lisa realized how brilliant Jackson was to use a hurricane as cover. Once the storm was closer to shore, there would be next to no one near the Lux Atlantic and they would be invisible in that area of the city. Of course there were safety concerns, but between her knowledge of hurricane survival and Jackson's knowledge of Company survival, they might actually stand a chance.

Lisa remembered how in her first year at the hotel a representative for a cosmetic company came in to negotiate for the hotel to include their products in the guests' rooms. She had never felt so degraded in her entire life as the woman, dressed not so differently from Lisa at this moment, stalked the lobby and critiqued everything with words like daggers. That awful woman would be her role model for this job.

Lisa did not want to approach the main desk because there were cameras aimed at the guests. Instead, she glared at the black-haired young man behind the counter from afar. When he finished with his clients, he approached Lisa timidly.

"Welcome to the—"

"You're not the manager," Lisa interjected impatiently. "I was told I would be able to meet with the manager at 10 a.m." She melodramatically took a long, lingering look at her watch. "10:01," she breathed over her elevated arm.

"You must be—"

"I mustn't be anything, but I _am_ Linda Maxwell from Weaver Enterprises."

"I'll just go get—"

"Please," Lisa insisted. "Go. Get. Now. I'll just make myself comfortable in your manager's office." The hotel employee gazed at her blankly as he attempted to understand what she was saying. "Where's her office, young man?" Lisa had wanted to slam her fist into the representative's face all those years ago for calling her "little girl," but now she realized the power in such words.

"If you'll come with me," he said, directing her with his outstretched arm.

* * *

Lisa was escorted to the hotel's formal office for the on-duty manager. It was a nicer room that was equipped for entertaining and schmoozing rather than accomplishing actual work like the more practical, but less showy, managerial office. There were no cameras at all in this office due to the delicate nature of some of their dealings, so this was the ideal meeting place for Lisa and her old acquaintance.

The door opened and Lisa could smell her perfume. Cynthia walked in and shut the door before she realized there was no one in sight in the room. "Hello?" she asked softly. A hand clamped over her mouth and a stronger body maneuvered her into captive stillness.

"Shh, shh," Lisa ordered in Cynthia's ear. "It's me, it's Lisa," she whispered.

Cynthia's large eyes attempted to bulge to the side so she could see her captor. "Memmaa?" she mumbled closed-mouth into Lisa's hand.

"Yeah, it's me. Don't scream or call for help," Lisa instructed her as she reached down and retrieved Cynthia's cell phone from her jacket pocket. "Understand? Don't scream. I'm going to take my hand off now, okay?" Cynthia nodded vigorously and Lisa fulfilled her promise. Lisa turned the phone completely off and gave it to Cynthia, who mindlessly put it back in her pocket.

"Lisa?" Cynthia asked as she rubbed her cheeks and chin. "Are you okay?" She stepped closer to Lisa, but Lisa inched back and locked the door behind them. "Is _he_ here?"

Lisa's face was unreadable. She wasn't even bothering to put on appearances, not even her "Customer Service" face for the occasion. All sense of pretense was lost to her. "No, he's not. I'm fine, Cynthia. Everything's okay. I just need your help with something," Lisa said, briskly walking around Cynthia and over to the conference table to get her purse. "I need your ID."

Cynthia didn't react at first. Lisa had been missing for a year. A year. She expected that if she ever saw Lisa again, there would be something epic, a friendly reunion worthy of a Lifetime tear-jerker movie of the week, but there was nothing. Lisa was here in body, but her soul was not quite the same. Coldness radiated from her as she demanded a favor rather than requested or begged.

Cynthia shook her head to snap herself back into the present. "Yeah, here," she cooperated, reaching into her other pocket to pull out the ID. She was about to hand it over to Lisa when she stopped and drew it back to her chest. "Why?" A few years prior, Cynthia would have never doubted Lisa. She would have never asked why. She would have done anything for any reason at all and she never needed the reason.

"It's best if you don't know. Trust me. It won't be traced back to you."

Cynthia always really liked Lisa, and more than that, she respected and admired her. This person was not the Lisa she knew. "Are you going to kill someone? Is he?"

Lisa left her purse at the table and went to Cynthia. She put her hands on the redhead's shoulders firmly. "It's nothing like that. And the less you know, the better. Cynthia, I really need you to trust me."

"He's doing it again," Cynthia muttered, pushing her ID back into her pocket as she broke loose from Lisa. "What is it this time?"

"What?"

"Last time, he was going to kill your dad. What is it this time? How is he making you do this? We can call Danny and he can help—" Cynthia's husband was with the FBI. If anyone could help Lisa, it would be him.

"No! I am not being coerced or threatened. I'm in trouble and he is too. We need your help if we're going to make it. Danny can't know. _No one _can know! Cynthia, I need you on this."

Out of the entire conversation, that was the first time Lisa demonstrated anything that might actually be a sincere emotion. She was passionate about completing her mission here today and she was also afraid of what might happen should she fail.

"Okay, fine!" Cynthia surrendered the ID and Lisa took it to her purse. She pulled out her cell phone and slid the card through the extension on the side. She waited for the message on the screen to appear. "That's it?"

"That's it," Lisa guaranteed. "If anyone questions you about anything, you never saw me, you never talked to me, you never let me scan your ID, and you still have your ID on your person," she said, holding it up for a visual cue. "There are four other managers with your clearance level, so they can't pin anything on you. You know nothing. Understand?"

Cynthia nodded and reclaimed the offered ID.

Lisa tossed her phone back into her purse and closed it up. She was heading for the door when Cynthia stopped her. "Lisa, are you okay? Seriously?" There was honest concern in her former co-worker's eyes. It seemed impossible that someone like Cynthia could actually care for her when she wasn't anything special, then or now.

"I'm fine," Lisa said in a small voice. "I think I might actually be close to 'happy,'" she admitted with a small chuckle. Of all the bizarre behaviors Cynthia had observed from her old friend in the last five minutes, watching Lisa talk more to herself than Cynthia was the most chilling of all.

* * *

Dr. Walker clicked the send button on the last email of the day. Part of him wished that he had his own medical practice where he could dictate more tasks to his trusted subordinates, but with employment in the prison system came an obligation to maintain a smaller, more intimate structure in which he took responsibility for more than just his patients' health alone. The paperwork was monotonous, but he had to do it.

He leafed through the scattering of paperwork that littered his desk. He didn't find what he was looking for, but he did find the day's mail. In the stack was the usual collection of solicitations from medical publishers and suppliers, each asking that he read their current research or contribute an article, that he recommend the prison switch from one brand of bandages to another, and so on. He threw all of it in the trash without bothering to open any of it, but as he walked away, his mind realized that one of the envelopes was not like the others. He took a step back to the garbage can next to his desk and picked up the envelope from the bottom of the mail stack. There was no outside return address. A postmark that partially covered a patriotic stamp was his only clue to its origin aside from the mysterious handwriting sample. He opened the envelope and found a small piece of folded paper.

Only two words were neatly written on the paper: _Thank you_.

Dr. Walker couldn't figure it out. Who would send him such a note? Why? He had helped any number of inmates over the years, but this—

As he was sliding the paper back into the envelope, the postmark caught his attention.

_Jackson, MS_.

Dr. Walker smiled broadly, nodding to himself in understanding and approval. "You're welcome," he whispered below his breath.

* * *

Frank opened the mailbox and pulled out a large batch of magazines, catalogs, circulars, and other junk that had been haphazardly shoved into the box without consideration. He grunted and grumbled as he flipped a catalog over to be face-up, then put a smaller envelope on top of it, and moved a crumpled magazine to the back of the stack. By the time he made it from the mail box back to the front door, he had the mail neatly arranged in size order. On top was a small envelope with no return address. He ripped it open with no regard for resealing it later.

_I would never hurt your family, but I had to protect mine. I'm sorry._

"That son of a bitch," Frank cursed.

Jackson was tying up loose ends and putting his final affairs in order. Whatever he had planned was apparently a one-way trip. Frank stared at the empty house diagonal from his own. It had been uninhabited for two weeks, and even though he was glad that Jackson was gone, the entire situation still didn't sit right on his mind.

The gray house across the street, the safe house, had never been lively, but it had seemed to be full of love when Jackson and Lisa had lived there under the alias of Mr. and Mrs. Roberts. Now the gray house that Jackson had built appeared soulless as it loomed over the neighborhood like Death.

* * *

**TBC…**


	15. Ch 14: This Will Not End Well

**Chapter 14: This Will Not End Well**

* * *

**August, 2012**

The mandatory evacuation was in full swing for the downtown bay area around the Lux Atlantic, and the point of no return was quickly approaching. Soon, they would be trapped by Mother Nature in Miami to face their demons as well as a demon of a storm. Their hotel closed, so that meant they had to find an alternate place of temporary residence. Jackson's plan had been to stay in the Lux Atlantic, but Lisa talked him out of it because she feared it wasn't safe. Joe offered his home to them and Lisa accepted on their behalf as Jackson grinded his teeth next to her.

The neighborhood was about half vacant and with the dark clouds haphazardly littering the sky, the suburb had taken on a decidedly apocalyptic appearance. Lisa backed-in the Mustang under the open carport of an evacuated house toward the end of the block before she and Jackson cautiously made their way to Joe's house. Any potential witnesses were too busy boarding up their windows, unloading provisions from their cars, or watching the news to even notice the fugitives. Despite this, Jackson was in excessive paranoia mode as his keen eyes scanned everywhere for anyone who may have been there to keep tabs on Joe—or on them. Once they were in the house, he yet again helped himself to conducting his own security assessment of the home to ensure that it was indeed secure for them. Joe had boarded up all the windows with sheets of plywood and while Jackson appreciated the privacy it afforded them, he was not crazy about the notion of sitting blind and not knowing who was outside the door.

Joe sat unconcernedly in front of the television while watching non-stop local coverage of the impending storm. Lisa was anxiously perched on the edge of the couch and listening to bits and pieces. The storm would make landfall the next night around six, but the feeder bands that wrapped around the storm's eye were already making their presence known every few minutes with a sudden downpour. There hadn't been much thunder or lightning, but that was to come. So far, they had gotten lucky with only the rain. The local authorities, law enforcement officers, and the National Guard were urging those last individuals who refused to leave the high risk zones to get out while getting out was still possible. Lisa grew bored with their diplomatic and perhaps exaggerated pleas, so she took their bags up to her old bedroom.

When she opened the door, Jackson was sitting on the floor, his back reclining against the side of her bed. "It looks like Barbie threw up in here," he remarked as she shut and locked the door behind her. Habits were hard to break.

"It's a little girl's bedroom," was her only justification for the fanatical use of pink and girlish enthusiasm in decorating Teenaged Lisa's room. Lisa dumped their bags in the corner on the opposite side before joining Jackson on the hardwood floor.

"This is really happening," she commented numbly. "We're really going to make our move tomorrow."

"At high noon," he breathed, nodding in agreement. "Just like all the best Westerns."

He smiled faintly and she mirrored it with equal weakness. Lisa leaned her head back against the bed.

"I feel like I should be writing a will or something, but there's nothing left to say or do…" She rolled her head to the right to look at her partner. "You know what I mean?"

He nodded without addressing his attention to her. That was when Lisa realized that he held in his hand the envelope that she had picked up from the bank in Mississippi. Upon feeling her scrutiny aimed in his direction, Jackson sighed in defeat. He hadn't been broken down by her nagging; he had been beaten by his own guilt and shame. The moment had come and gone a few times before, and now it had returned.

This was it—his last chance. If he didn't do it now, she would never know him.

"There are so many things that I will never be able to give you, Leese," he lamented. "So many things I'm not able to do or I don't understand how to do. Sometimes I wish I could just touch you and look into your eyes and somehow communicate everything that I want you to know about who I am, but I can't. Even if I could, that knowledge is power. It's total control of another person. When you know what the monster under the bed looks like, what he does, how he does it…" Jackson turned to Lisa and their eyes met. "…what his name is…the monster isn't scary anymore. He's just another thing to be conquered or controlled. To be left evil or to be made good."

Jackson passed Lisa the envelope.

"What's this?" she asked ignorantly. She was not about to open the sacred envelope without express permission.

"A picture of the monster under the bed."

Lisa blindly reached into the envelope and her fingers connected with what felt like a photograph. She pulled it out and gazed at it in what could only be described as a culmination of shock, horror, pity, and—

The picture was of Jackson when he was three, maybe four-years-old at most. His mother, an incredibly malnourished and anemic woman with rather long dark brown hair pulled back into a wind-messed ponytail, stood as tall and proud as she could with her son in her arms, his skinny (but comparatively healthier) body supported on one small hip bone hidden under a baggy, thread-worn sundress. She had a massive smile on her face and was clearly entranced by the love of her son, but her eyes held darkness deeper than a black hole. Still, her vivid blue eyes shined as she attempted to enjoy the moment, despite the suspicious light purple coloring around her right eye. Young Jackson had a fading smile on his face as his immature eyes perceived something that his moral compass told him was wrong and evil, but his mind could not calculate an appropriate reaction. He was frozen in time by the photograph with an expression that wanted to be happy, but was distracted by whatever he saw or had seen that prevented him from smiling from mouth to mind. It was an unsettling and chilling facade to see on a child so young.

"That was taken in Biloxi at one of the lighthouses," Jackson commented casually as if reciting something he had read in the news that morning. "I think it says it all. I look like _whatever_ you call that," he mused, waving his hand apathetically while rolling his eyes. "And she has that same stupid smile on her face like the world is all rainbows and unicorns."

"You call this stupid?" Lisa pursued curiously. Of all the words she would use to describe the mother and son in the picture, "stupid" would not be one of them.

"What do you call it?"

"Love," she declared poignantly. Jackson huffed and shook his head to himself. "No, hear me out," she insisted. "Look at her." Lisa held out the photo and Jackson obediently glared upon it with disgust and disinterest competing against each other for dominance. "She looks horrible. 'Horrible' seems like such a simple word that can't even sum it up, but she looks terrible. There aren't any words for it."

"But," Jackson offered with mock enthusiasm.

"_But_…" she continued. "She's happy. You can see the love in her eyes. How she held you. How hard she was trying to have fun and be normal for just a few seconds with you. She gave you everything she could give you."

They remained wordless for a few minutes. Lisa cradled the picture reverently in her hands and scrutinized it, taking in every nuance and detail.

"Do you see the necklace she's wearing?"

"The cross," Lisa answered.

"Check the envelope." Lisa set the picture on the small table beside her bed and poured the last item from the envelope. Her palm was filled with the cold metal of the gold chain and cross that once belonged to Jackson's mother. She carefully untangled it. "Her parents gave it to her when she was a kid. She wore it every single day." It was a delicate chain, so light that it felt only slightly heavier than the air in the room. The cross itself was small and plain. "Those are the only two traces of my life before the Company."

"You kept them for a reason."

Jackson ignored how her statement fished for more information. He took the necklace from Lisa's hands and started moving it through his fingers so he could work the clasp. Lisa followed his unspoken command and turned for him to put the necklace on her as she held her hair off her neck.

"It didn't protect her, but maybe it'll protect you," he spoke as if the cross had supernatural powers that would assert themselves like a miracle on demand. Lisa put her fingers to the cross and held it protectively. She looked over her shoulder at Jackson the best she could. His head tilted downward in order to peck a small kiss at the base of her neck. "Now you know everything about me."

He wrapped his arms around her and she leaned back into him. It was the calm before the storm.

* * *

The next morning, Lisa and Jackson crawled out of bed before daylight. They were high on adrenaline and had not slept a wink at all during the night. Somehow, though, they felt energetic and primed. They both prepared for their day and were grateful that the increasing winds had not blown out the electricity yet. They then headed downstairs to do what Lisa referred to as the traditional "cleaning of the fridge" in which everything that was important was eaten as a last meal while they still had power, and any leftovers that could be cooked on a camping cooker were eaten as quickly as possible after losing power. Breakfast was an omelet that consisted of so many ingredients that Jackson lost count.

Her father joined them around six o'clock when the smell drew him downstairs. It was disconcerting to watch his daughter cooking side-by-side with the man they both had shot in this very house only twenty feet away, but he was grateful to see her finally find someone with whom she could do something as normal as cooking breakfast in the comfort of silent communication. They were in sync, reading one another's minds as they passed ingredients at just the right time, zigging and zagging with the other in just the right way, and, in short, getting along like they had been together for fifty years.

Jackson was not Joe's first choice. Or second. Or thirty-millionth. Nevertheless, Jackson was evidently good for her. Joe didn't like it, but he was realistic enough to know that he didn't have to like it. Lisa was her own person and as long as Jackson didn't hurt her (which he hadn't so far), Joe would tolerate this atrocious union. In many ways, Lisa seemed stronger and healthier than he had seen her in years, but he perceived a few changes that were not for the best. Jackson was not the picture of human perfection and Joe could tell that there was severe damage beneath the younger man's chilly exterior. Jackson's ways had inadvertently rubbed off onto Lisa and Joe wasn't sure if she was even aware of it. She had distanced herself from the world in a way that only those who had been close to her for years could possibly notice. Before, it had been avoidance. Now, it was alienation, with the emphasis on "alien."

Joe took charge of cleaning up the kitchen while Lisa and Jackson turned on the television to see the latest weather report. The storm hadn't changed speed or direction, so they were still looking at the eye making landfall early that evening. The electricity suddenly went out and Lisa knew it could be weeks before they had power again. Jackson navigated his way up the stairs to Lisa's room while Lisa turned on a small flashlight and joined her father in the kitchen.

"Did you finish?"

"Yeah," he replied while drying the last plate. He stacked it on top of the other plates and closed the cabinet. He wiped the already clean countertop with a wet towel. He kept his head down as if Lisa weren't even in the house with him.

"What is it?" she pressured him. Lisa clicked off the flashlight to preserve the battery. Although dark, the room wasn't totally black thanks to the small windows that were left uncovered and she could easily enough make out the blurry gray image of her father.

Joe stopped scrubbing the counter. "You can still back out of this. Jackson and I can handle it," he spoke without lifting his head.

Lisa sighed and bit her lower lip. "I'm involved in this as much as you two are. I'm not running away."

Joe slapped the towel down on the counter and wheeled around, crossing his arms with the authority only an angry parent could muster. "You don't have to run, Leese. You can be smart about this and let us take care of you."

"That's where you're wrong. I don't need you or Jackson to take care of me."

"It's our job to take care of you."

Lisa snorted. "I love that line. The almighty 'job.' The Company must have some great propaganda machines to brainwash—"

"Not that kind of job," Joe interrupted. "I mean it's our jobs because we love you."

In the dimness of the kitchen, Joe could see his daughter shift her weight uncomfortably. Her confident posture slumped into an adolescent lack of self-esteem. "Don't use emotion as an excuse to right a wrong. The Company screwed us and now we're standing up for ourselves. It's my right and obligation to stand up for myself."

Lisa left the room and Joe stood alone, his mind racing to find the point of when, exactly, Lisa had lost her heart to her head.

* * *

Upstairs, Jackson was preparing for war. He was checking one of their guns with his back to the door when Lisa walked in her bedroom. A battery operated lamp glowed softly on her dresser and the room was a hazy shade of yellow gold because of it. He snapped the gun back together and held it outward behind his back for Lisa to take without giving any other indication that he was aware of her presence. Her lips curled into a small smile at Jackson's ability to interact with her without giving even the slightest hint that he knew she was in the room. He seemed to have a sixth sense that told him at all times who was near him and what their intentions were.

She glanced at the weapon. "I'd rather take mine," she said after she recognized that the gun he gave her was one they had taken off of the men who had broken into her apartment to kill her.

"Yours is legally licensed and registered. The storm can erase DNA and shut down video cameras, but it can't hide that. You'll use that one." Jackson packed some things into his bag that Lisa couldn't see. "Anything personal stays here. We can't bring anything that could make us more vulnerable." He took several of his knives off the bed and returned them to a small wooden case in his bag. In exchange, he retrieved several different knives from a separate case. Lisa put the gun down on the dresser and crossed the room to the other side of her bed where Jackson stared down at his now completely packed bag. He was lost in thought. Lisa reached out to put her hand on his back, but he blocked her advance with his arm.

If they touched, if that intimacy was initiated for even the slightest second, there would be no way he could betray her the way he intended, the way he had to do.

Jackson shook his head and said, "Not now. I can't." He stepped around her and left the room.

* * *

Downstairs, Joe sat in his chair in the dark living room. His hurricane survival kit (which was actually a bag of chips and a Budweiser beer, both unopened) awaited him on the coffee table. Outside, the storm pounded upon them, thunder booming and wind violently hammering against the house. The house was a sturdy built structure, but it cracked and popped under the wind's pressure so much that it seemed as if the building would break at any given moment. Joe had been through enough storms over the years in different parts of the country to know what to expect, but his heart still skipped a beat every once in a while when a particularly rough patch of wind struck.

Jackson sat down on the edge of the couch closest to Joe. "I don't need to tell you what to do if something goes wrong," Jackson began.

"I'm her father, you bastard," Joe snapped, impatient with Jackson's mistrust and superiority. It was now or never, Joe rationalized. "Do you love her?"

Jackson remained impassive as if Joe hadn't voiced his question aloud. "If you turn on us," he finally answered, "I won't hesitate to put you down."

"Right back at you."

Jackson nodded. "I'm glad we had this conversation."

"Likewise."

* * *

**What Happened at Noon**

Lisa and Jackson made sure they were the first to arrive at the location. The small private airport was obviously closed and almost every hangar was empty since most plane owners had evacuated by air days ago. Hangar number eight was the agreed upon meet place and Jackson surveyed it with a keener eye than he had checked Joe's house.

Lisa stood almost paralyzed by fear. It had rushed upon her as they pulled up in the Mustang. Dread overwhelmed her and she had to force her body to cooperate. To open the car door. To step out into the rain. To enter the hangar. Now she couldn't move. All she could do was focus on reminding herself to breathe. Her body was entirely too at ease with the notion of not breathing, as if it were some kind of defensive reflex that would help her avoid being seen.

She flinched when she heard Jackson's footfall close-in on her. "All clear," he reported.

Jackson was cool and calm, the picture of professionalism. He wore one of his work suits, a dark gray jacket with a white shirt sans tie, and he looked not unlike how he did the first time she met him. Lisa was dressed in black pants and a black quarter-sleeved button-up blouse. She wore a pair of practical boots that were laced tightly and her hair was pulled back in a secure ponytail. Lost under the collar of her shirt was the cross Jackson had given her. She was afraid of wearing it on this day because it was so old and delicate, but she felt compelled to wear it on behalf of his mother. In a strange way, this day was her fight too. Jackson's mother hadn't been able to stand up against her enemy, but today Lisa had the chance to stand up against her own enemy.

"You okay?" Jackson asked from a few feet away. He had been keeping his distance and Lisa wanted nothing more than to touch him, to feel safe and know that she wasn't alone, but that wasn't possible. She nodded vigorously and fretfully put her hand to her throat as burning bile rose to the midway point. Her eyes were filling with moisture, not from tears, but from her nerves. "If you need to throw up, now's the time. I don't want you embarrassing me in front of the bad guys. They can be very judgmental."

Jackson was so serious that Lisa nodded shakily. It wasn't until a smirk tugged at his lips that she noticed the twinkle in his eye. "Jerk," she muttered when she realized that he was being facetious.

Jackson stayed apart from her, but he still reached out to rub her back supportively for a few seconds. His touch was cold and detached, a clinical type of contact rather than the familiar feel of a lover. "It'll be over in no time and this will be just a fuzzy memory to you."

Over the roar of the rain, Lisa heard a car pull up outside. She glanced at Jackson and he nodded.

Showtime.

Jackson and Lisa stood beside one another with about five feet between them. Jackson's hands were in his pockets and Lisa's were folded together in front of her. In from the wet darkness walked six men in black suits and ties, and a seventh man, dressed in a deep blue suit with a shirt and tie each a few shades of blue away, made a grand entrance behind them a few moments later.

The Piper.

"Jackson," the Piper greeted. He was of average height and build, and he had completely silver hair that seemed to contradict his rather youthful looking face. If Lisa had to guess on appearances alone, she would put him in his forties, but there was a depth to his eyes that suggested he was perhaps a little older than he seemed. The Piper and Jackson stared down one another, each inspecting and dissecting his enemy for the first time in person.

Jackson had an extremely peculiar expression on his face. He was thrown off his game when he spotted the Piper. Something was wrong, very, _very_ wrong. The Piper was known for being notoriously hands-on when it came to personal matters, and nothing had been more personal on his roster as of late than Jackson and Lisa. Yet here he was—impersonal and unfamiliar. Jackson knew that being a professional in this line of work required a certain theatrical skill and the Piper did not have it. It was like watching a bad guy from a cheaply-made buddy cop movie in the 1980's.

This was a stranger and not the Big Reveal that Jackson had been anticipating. Surely this wasn't…

This had _never_ happened before in the history of the Company. No one had ever mentioned something like this happening, so surely it wasn't happening now. _Oh shit_ was the only thing that Jackson could think of repeatedly, like the mantra from hell. They were screwed even more than they had predicted.

Would the Real Piper please stand up?

Satisfied that he had seen all there was to see of Jackson, the Piper directed his dark brown eyes to Lisa. He leered at her knowingly, as if he had insight as to every single thing about her and was ready to exploit it all in a single instant.

"Ms. Reisert," the Piper acknowledged her with a gentlemanly nod. He returned his attention to Jackson. "I understand you are here to do business."

"I am," Jackson answered, trying not to react to the Piper's men spreading out around them in a strategic pattern. He expected this would happen and he had been prepared for it, but in the heat of the moment, knowing that Lisa was unarmed (as her gun was hidden in the car in the event of an emergency getaway) made Jackson regret his plan. He had been so ready to show up and do the deal that he was now finding himself almost overwhelmed by it all. It took every ounce of strength he had to maintain his composure and keep his head together.

The Piper put his hands in his pockets, unintentionally mimicking Jackson's posture. He strolled patiently back and forth in a long line before Jackson and Lisa.

"You've been a thorn in my side for so long, Jackson," the Piper stated in a paternal voice. "We've given you so much over the years and you threw it all away because of a girl, a damaged one at that." Lisa's eyes darted toward Jackson and he continued to concentrate on the Piper without wavering. "Messing up an assignment is never a good thing, but screwing up one as tremendously as you did this one would have gotten you in big trouble. We could have worked something out, but you blew that when you took matters into your own hands and followed the girl home. You ended up all over the news and that's just unprofessional. We'd lose credibility if we had let that slide."

"So you sent some visitors for me in the pen," Jackson finished for him, not truly believing a word of this. It didn't add up. There was so much more to this story than this, this…_rehearsed script_.

"We had to complete our end of the assignment," the Piper justified with a shrug that he held for several moments. "Your end was a lost cause, but we still had a chance at damage control. Unfortunately, you managed to scrape by for six years." The Piper stopped and nodded toward Lisa. "And you…" He chuckled at the private joke Lisa was to him. "You've been the gum on the bottom of my shoe for years. Just when I think I've scraped you completely off, you start sticking to the floor and annoying me again."

"I'm sorry," Lisa responded in a disinterested monotone as she secretly wondered if this guy was for real—this was too cheesy to be real. But surely... "I promise I'll never do it again."

She didn't have to look at Jackson to sense him tensing up at her sarcasm. He cleared his throat, redirecting the attention away from Lisa. "Not that your recap of our story's plot isn't appreciated, but we have business to do."

"Of course," the Piper agreed, nodding. He clapped his hands once in front of him. "So, I understand you have something to offer me," he asked Jackson with excitement.

"I do." For the first time, Jackson looked to Lisa and she looked to him. Their eyes met. Lisa appraised the situation and saw the Piper's men closing in on her as Jackson stepped farther away from her. Jackson wouldn't move away from her…unless—

"Wha—Jackson? What the hell? Jackson?" Her voice went higher as reality struck her. Two men had her by the arms and another had a gun trained on her. "Jackson?" she whispered weakly as she felt herself going limp in their hold.

"I present to you Lisa Reisert," Jackson told the Piper. "With her in custody, you can now have total control over Joe Reisert. Multiple problems solved."

"Excellent work, Jackson."

"You son of a bitch," Lisa spat at her lover. He stood there with a smug expression that clearly meant he could care less about her or her feelings. "You made me trust you. You made me think that—"

Jackson held up a hand. "No, no. Be honest and fair here, Leese. I didn't make you _think_ anything_. _I didn't make you _do _anything. Whatever you thought was happening or going to happen, it was just part of the job. Let's face it: you played me as much as I played you."

"You bastard," Lisa yelled as she attempted to free herself from her captors' grips.

"If it wasn't for being so emotional, she'd make a fine field agent, maybe even a Manager one day," Jackson confided in the Piper.

Lisa stopped struggling. "Now what?" she demanded loudly without taking her eyes off Jackson.

"We settle our business here and get out before the storm becomes too severe," the Piper explained diplomatically.

"Sounds good to me," Lisa concurred. "But I have some business I need to tend to as well." She kicked the guy to her right in the back of his knee, dropping him straight to the ground. As he fell, she tugged her right arm free and decked the man on her left in the nose so hard that she could hear it crunch flat against his face. Blood flew out and she felt the warm fluid spread on her fist. She spun around and kicked the guy on the right in the face before he had a chance to pull himself back up to his feet. Both men were down. The third thug guarding Lisa, the one holding the gun, didn't shoot because he was apparently under orders not to injure or kill Lisa, but that didn't stop her from kneeing him in the groin and struggling with him for the gun before she solved the problem by elbowing him in the face and then kicking him down.

With the weapon in hand, Lisa aimed straight at her target: Jackson.

"Put the gun down, Leese. You're not making this any easier on yourself," Jackson attempted to reason with her. He was inhumanly calm, not at all like the man she had come to know in the last few weeks and months.

"You have the gun, Lisa," the Piper intervened. "Not him. You're in control. How do you want to handle this?"

Jackson's icy exterior was starting to break as he realized that the Piper was now open to negotiating with Lisa for Jackson just as easily as he had been with Jackson for Lisa. Suddenly the cocky gleam in his eye turned into a dubious spark of uncertainty as he watched the Piper stand by and do nothing against Lisa. Betrayal was truly the day's theme.

"I have to pick between you and him," she said, "you" being the Piper and "him" being Jackson. "And right now, I think I'd rather take my chances with you than him."

The Piper didn't hesitate. "Then kill him and we'll be on our way."

Jackson's jaw went slack. He had not only lost control of this situation, but he had also lost all chances of survival because of this emotional, irrational woman who had destroyed his life once before. Now she would be the end of him.

"And what'll happen to me?" Lisa inquired, still holding the gun on Jackson.

"Maybe Jackson was on to something when he suggested that you could be agent material. I do happen to have a job opening…" the Piper noted, casting a side glance at Jackson. "Let's resolve this and go. Make the call, Lisa."

"Lisa," Jackson spoke up, this time holding both of his hands out in front of him as he argued for his life. "They'll double-cross you. They'll—"

"Treat me just like you did?" Lisa returned. "I was broken and you put me back together," she softly explained. "You made all the pieces fit again, but this time, the pieces weren't where they should be. You made me a monster, Jackson, just like you."

"Leese, don't do this—"

"Beg for your life. _Beg_."

Jackson stopped talking and stood tall again. "I won't beg a weak woman for anything. You won't kill me because you don't have the guts to do what it takes. You're nothing but torn and bloody seconds—"

Lisa fired off the six rounds that remained in the gun she had taken from the Piper's man. When there was nothing left in it, she was still pulling down on the trigger as if she were acting on autopilot. Upon realizing that the gun was empty and no more bullets were being fired, she lowered the weapon to her side. Her hands were numb and she only comprehended it after she heard the metal clink of the gun plummeting to the hangar floor. The Piper was saying something, but it was a blur to her. Her ears sounded like they were full of water. Noises were distorted and the room was starting to spin. She had stopped breathing too. Jackson's motionless body on the floor was the only thing that she could see or process. Jackson was down. He wasn't moving. She had killed the man she—

"No," she moaned against her will. This was the man who had betrayed her, yet she was still under his thrall, completely absorbed by his charisma and control, even as he lay limply, lifelessly, on the cold and damp cement floor. "No," she begged whatever God was out there and taking requests on this dark day. She bolted for Jackson and dropped to her knees, skidding her way across the last foot that separated them. She collected his hand in hers and felt for a pulse. It was there. Barely. Her bloody hands searched his chest for an instant before finding warm blood coming from several different locations. She leaned into him, whispering and caressing his face frantically, grief-stricken movements that were shaky rather than comforting. Lisa lowered her forehead against his. It was a blood bath that she had drawn for them on this day.

The Piper wasn't surprised by Lisa's emotional display. In fact, it just confirmed what he already knew: this woman was a liability. He had humored the notion of Lisa Reisert being an ideal candidate for rehabilitation, but seeing her react so emotionally and loyally after being betrayed reinforced the belief that she would only benefit the Company if she were used as a message rather than a messenger.

The Piper nodded and his men collected Lisa Reisert, hauling her hysterical form off the dying body of Jackson Rippner.

* * *

Lisa's mind was vacant of all thoughts and the world around her was strangely nonexistent as the Piper's men escorted her to their car outside the hangar. The rain was pounding down in a way that was uniquely tropical in nature. The drops were thin and sharp as needles, and they showered down sideways.

The rain fell sideways. It was sideways rain. That was the only thing close to a thought that Lisa could muster at this moment and she cried harder when she recognized that her logic had transformed into gibberish. She would never get herself out of this situation if all she could do was notice the rain's pattern. Lisa saw lips moving, but she heard no words. Her ears could only perceive an internally echoing sound that was devoid of anything remotely coherent. She felt lightheaded, but that was probably from her inability to remember to breathe. The forceful winds threatened to knock her off her feet, yet she didn't care to ground herself against their might as the men did.

They shoved her in the backseat of the first of two Chrysler 300's between two of the henchmen. The other four filled the other car and followed them.

She was in shock, her mind finally told her. Lisa rotated between being freezing cold and burning hot, she was wet but not soaked, and blood was smeared all over her hands and the exposed flesh of her arms as if she had been painting all day. Her hands caught her attention and she held them out in front of her, her fingers fanned open. Her gold wedding band, which she wore out of responsibility to the job, was superficially stained reddish-purple by dried blood. Jackson wore his ring every day, at first because of the job, and later because of more than the job.

Lisa didn't discern that she was shaking until the Piper, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, turned around and took hold of her hand, her sullied and crusting bloody hand. The gold band scorched her skin under his unwanted touch.

"He never loved you, Lisa. You were a job. You did the _right_ thing," he parentally assured her as if his comforting words and soothing tone would calm her panic. Lisa's eyes felt like they were permanently bugged out of her head and dried from tears and a lack of blinking.

She actively reminded herself to breathe once more, but her body had difficulty recalling how to perform a task it so easily took for granted any other time.

The car struggled against the intense wind as they slowly made their way to the main road.

"What's going to happen now?" Lisa asked hollowly. Her voice sounded light years away, and very young and small.

"Now, we send a message to your father and another old friend."

"Where?"

The Piper raised his brows. "Where do you think? I've always been a fan of bookending stories, so let's go back to the start."

The Lux Atlantic.

After the Piper again faced forward in his seat, Lisa twisted her wedding ring on her finger before sliding it off and inconspicuously concealing it within the leather gaps of the car seat.

* * *

As Jackson gasped for air, he waited for his life to flash before his eyes. He had planned this betrayal with such tedious attention to detail that he should have expected to receive this critical an injury. He had been hurt before, coincidentally enough by the same woman, but this was worse. He tried to remember better times, but all he could recall was the last scene. As he considered it, he wondered if this would be his final experience in this world. There were so many things that he hadn't found a chance to say or do. That would have never bothered him before. He had known from the start that this would not end well. He just thought he would have had more time before it ended.

Maybe if they had done something different…

* * *

**What _Really _Happened at Noon**

"So, I understand you have something to offer me," the Piper asked Jackson with excitement.

"I do." For the first time, Jackson looked to Lisa and she looked to him. Their eyes met. This was the moment they were waiting for, the moment in which the only way to defeat the Piper was to give him a victory.

"Divide and Conquer" was a common practice among many in this line of work, as Jackson had taught her, but dividing themselves to individually conquer their enemy was a plan that Jackson was sure no one would see coming. Lisa didn't like the plan. There was too much risk associated with it, but Jackson assured her that it was the only way.

Lisa appraised the situation and saw the Piper's men closing in on her as Jackson stepped farther away from her. Jackson wouldn't move away from her…unless he was betraying her. This would be the point where all their acting skills would come in handy. Jackson had criticized her acting ability before, so now she had no choice but to give it her all. Their lives and their future depended on this very encounter.

"Wha—Jackson? What the hell? Jackson? Jackson?" Jackson was so into his role that Lisa didn't have to act much. She saw the monstrous Manager she loathed staring back at her and that helped her to hate him and be in the moment.

"I present to you Lisa Reisert," Jackson told the Piper. "With her in custody, you can now have total control over Joe Reisert. Multiple problems solved."

"Excellent work, Jackson."

"You son of a bitch," Lisa spat at her lover as he stood there and took it without even the slightest indication of emotional distress beneath the surface. "You made me trust you. You made me think that—" They hadn't rehearsed their dialogue, but Lisa knew from experience that asking questions and laying blame were the two ways to get a heated response from Jackson.

Jackson held up a hand. "No, no. Be honest and fair here, Leese. I didn't make you _think_ anything. I didn't make you _do_ anything. Whatever you thought was happening or going to happen, it was just part of the job. Let's face it: you played me as much as I played you."

There were times in their relationship that Lisa feared their union was nothing more than a mind game. Jackson was playing on all her fears and all of the truths that were shared on pillows and in dark corners. He wasn't taking chances on her sub-par acting. He was forcing her to be real and to take action. Dr. Phil would be proud that Jackson had retained something from his book seven years ago.

"You bastard," Lisa yelled as she attempted to free herself from her captors' grips. As much as she despised how seriously Jackson was taking his role, she was grateful for his ability to get under her skin. She needed that. His words were fuel to her, reminding her that the Company was the enemy and if they could defeat them, then the term "job" would be nothing more than an inside joke from how they met years ago.

"If it wasn't for being so emotional, she'd make a fine field agent, maybe even a Manager one day," Jackson confided in the Piper. He loved a healthy dose of irony in his verbal diet.

Lisa stopped struggling. They had put on enough of a show that it was time to move on to other matters. The Piper and his men believed everything they had spoon-fed them, so it was time to step up to the next phase of the final confrontation.

"Now what?" she demanded loudly without taking her eyes off Jackson. She needed his strength so she could carry on and remember that this was just a rouse and it wouldn't last much longer.

"We settle our business here and get out before the storm becomes too severe," the Piper explained diplomatically.

"Sounds good to me," Lisa concurred. "But I have some business I need to tend to as well." Lisa incapacitated the two men holding her down and she claimed a gun as her own.

Jackson couldn't help admiring her agility and skills as she handled the two men like they were nothing more menacing than overenthusiastic Girl Scouts looking to make their quota. The Lisa Reisert who almost killed him seven years ago had relied on natural athleticism and adrenaline to keep herself alive. This Lisa Reisert relied on her body and mind, two entities that joined forces under the vow of "never again." Physically, Lisa would have been a great Company agent, but the only thing that disqualified her was her soul. She sometimes acted as if she had misplaced hers, like she didn't think she even had one anymore, but Jackson knew better. Lisa's soul, at this very moment, was fighting for the world she knew and the life she wanted—even if Lisa herself wasn't consciously aware of it.

With the weapon in hand, Lisa aimed straight at her target: Jackson.

"Put the gun down, Leese. You're not making this any easier on yourself," Jackson attempted to reason with her. He thought he would be prepared to face her over the barrel of a gun again, but he would be a liar if he said the look in her eye didn't make him a little jittery.

"You have the gun, Lisa," the Piper intervened. "Not him. You're in control. How do you want to handle this?"

Jackson hadn't expected the Piper to be this cooperative with Lisa as she held a gun. When they had brainstormed the sequence of today's events, Jackson figured the Piper would have Lisa disarmed and he would take matters into his own hands. This, however, was a little more creative, if not lazy.

"I have to pick between you and him. And right now, I think I'd rather take my chances with you than him."

"Then kill him and we'll be on our way."

"And what'll happen to me?"

"Maybe Jackson was on to something when he suggested you could be agent material. I do happen to have a job opening…" the Piper noted, casting a side glance at Jackson. "Let's resolve this and go. Make the call, Lisa."

"Lisa," Jackson spoke up, this time holding both of his hands out in front of him as he argued for his life. "They'll double-cross you. They'll—"

"Treat me just like you did?" Lisa returned. "I was broken and you put me back together. You made all the pieces fit again, but this time, the pieces weren't where they should be. You made me a monster, Jackson, just like you." Her words weren't intended to be real. They were dialogue, fake accusations to play a part and mastermind a scheme, yet they hit a little too close. He knew this would not end well. There was no reason in the world for Lisa to be with him or to be happy with him. This would not end well. They didn't belong together. This would not end well. It was unhealthy. This would not end well.

"Leese, don't do this—" He had planned it and prepared for it for a year. This would not end well.

"Beg for your life. _Beg_." This would not end well.

Jackson stopped talking and stood tall again. "I won't beg a weak woman for anything. You won't kill me because you don't have the guts to do what it takes. You're nothing but torn and bloody seconds—"

This would not end well.

Lisa fired off the six rounds that remained in the gun she had taken from the Piper's man. Jackson's motionless body on the floor was the only thing that she could see or process. Jackson was down. He wasn't moving. She had killed the man she—

"No," she moaned against her will. "No," she begged whatever God was out there and taking requests on this dark day. She bolted for Jackson and dropped to her knees, skidding her way across the last foot that separated them. She collected his hand in hers and felt for a pulse. It was there. Barely. Her bloody hands felt around on his chest for an instant before finding warm blood coming from several different locations despite the bulletproof vest he wore under his shirt—the vest that he swore would keep him safe. At first she thought the blood might be from the blood bags they had rigged into the vest in the event that she had to shoot him, but the bags had not been triggered and were still intact. Additionally, the blood was warm and not cold. Terror seized her.

She leaned into him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, God, Jackson," she whispered as she caressed his face in frantic, grief-stricken movements that were shaky rather than comforting. Lisa lowered her forehead against his.

He had lied and told Lisa that the vest would stop anything. She would have never agreed to this crazy scheme if she had known the truth. "Armor piercing rounds," he breathed out and he wasn't sure if his voice was actually loud enough for Lisa to hear. The world seemed so far away at the moment amid an enclosing circle of hazy black, and there was too much light in the center of it all of a sudden.

Honestly, he had expected this. The Company was smart enough to know that he would wear a vest. They knew it, he knew it, and _everyone_ knew it. But he had convinced Lisa that this was all perfectly safe and would be no big deal, and that's all that mattered. His imminent death was something he had planned, predicted, and prepared for during the last few months—basically since learning that her father was Company. He realized then that there was no turning back, that Lisa would lose someone she loved. As much as it would thrill Jackson for it to be anyone _but_ him, he knew it had to be this way. This was the betrayal he had planned. This was the lesson he knew that Lisa had to learn—that to love is to lose, and trust changes everything. This was the moment where he would prove to Lisa who he really was and how she should have trusted him from the start, and unfortunately that guilt would be something that she would have to endure for the rest of her days.

However, now as he lay dying, he understood how stupid and risky this plan had been. He had believed himself to be more than human and that no bullet would slow him down unless he allowed it. Unfortunately, as his life fluid drained from his body, he recognized how mortal he really was.

Perhaps one day when she married Jeff…? Joe...? John…? Whatever the Miami muscle-bound macho boy's name had been… Perhaps when she married him, she would name her son Jackson after that special friend she once had.

"Shh," she whispered, stroking his hair and his cheek. "Stay with me," she pleaded. "You're gonna be okay." Jackson wheezed and his eyes rolled back in his head. He was still conscious in his mind and some of his senses, but he was zoning out against his will. "Jackson!" She gently shook him, trying to pull him back to life, back to her. "Jackson!"

The Piper nodded and his men collected Lisa Reisert, pulling her hysterical form off the dying body of Jackson Rippner. The hysterics. The slow, agonizing death. This was not part of the plan. This would not end well.

* * *

Jackson's involuntary gasping for air brought him out of unconsciousness. He was in agony, a pain so intense that he saw bright spots. It was quiet now, with only the gusting of wind more so than rain as the only sound he heard. He coughed and tasted blood in his mouth. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough for him to gather that he didn't have much time. Jackson surveyed his condition the best he could. He had been shot at least three times that he could see and maybe more that he couldn't see. He knew of one in the left shoulder, and the other two shots had landed startlingly close to his heart. He felt funny in the center of his chest and he was pretty sure that bullet had managed to clear through his body and out his back. His right arm had been nicked.

He began ripping the buttons of his shirt so he could reach the velcro confines of his kevlar vest. As he started undoing the vest, a searing pain radiated through his body. Jackson quickly tore off the undetonated fake blood bags that he had rigged to the vest and tossed them away with a strained effort. He fastened his vest again, perhaps a little tighter than before. With the holes in his body and the blood loss he was experiencing, he reconsidered the theory that the vest was his best chance at being held together until he could find medical treatment. He buttoned his shirt properly except for two lost buttons. He was going out with dignity.

Jackson breathed heavily for a few moments and forced himself to regain his self-control. He had a job to do. Although his part was over, he couldn't trust Joe to come through for them in the end. Jackson still had work to do. He reached down the best he could and attempted to fish out his phone from his pants pocket. Jackson couldn't stop himself from groaning like a dying animal. The wails had escaped from him without his intent or consent. Lisa would be so proud to see that the Evil Pinocchio had become a real boy after all, and all it took was a couple of mortal wounds.

He tried to calm himself by picturing her face, how her large smile would take over her features and become absolutely infectious, but all he could conjure in his mind's eye was an image of sorrow washing the color from her as she helplessly gazed down at him.

He finally successfully clutched the phone in his hand. He was still lying on his back, useless and unable to get himself together, but it was the best he could do for the present. Jackson checked the time. He had been out for about eight minutes. Then he checked to see if Lisa had activated the GPS tracker they had put under her wedding ring. She had.

Lisa was being taken to the Lux Atlantic, just as they had anticipated. Jackson exhaled and his body jerked from the stabbing daggers of pain that traveled through his nerves. With no traffic to contend with, he could make it to the Lux Atlantic rather quickly. He lolled his head back. The hangar doors were about thirty feet away—he could make that. Jackson attempted to sit up but collapsed back to the wet cement floor, moaning in regret at that rash movement.

At this very minute, what was more important than arriving at the Lux Atlantic in time was simply arriving at the hangar door alive.

* * *

Lisa didn't protest as the hired muscle held her by the arm while the brains of the group overrode the keypad control panel of the hotel. The wind blew rain into them like millions of bullets showering against them all at once. The sky was a creepy gray and the sound of trees cracking and buildings creaking under the intense pressure made her feel anxiously on edge. Her mind was already a wreck, but being in the midst of the storm as it surged against land allowed Lisa to realize just how small and insignificant she and her problems were in the larger scheme of things. Her Company attendant yanked her arm like the leash on a stubborn dog.

"Ms. Reisert, the emergency generators please," the Piper ordered.

"I don't work here anymore," Lisa shot back, her only half-hearted attempt at being a difficult hostage thus far.

"I doubt they change their emergency overrides very often."

Lisa locked her jaw and began walking away, dragging her watchdog along for the ride. A few seconds later, the Piper was pleased to see the emergency lighting system activate, the small bulbs putting out just enough light to make the pitch black hotel eerily visible. "The elevator?" he requested as she returned to the group with her guard.

"Functional for authorized personnel only."

"Superb. After you," the Piper insisted, gesturing toward the elevators.

The Piper pressed the button for the top possible floor. Since they did not have a key to access the penthouse floors, they would have to take the service stairs for the last four floors to the roof. Jackson had warned her about this. Keefe was supposed to die at the top of the hotel, and because Lisa saved him from his demise, it would make sense that the Company would kill her at the top. It would offer plausible deniability for those who didn't look beneath the surface ("How sad, that poor girl killed herself") while sending a message to those who were intelligent enough to see the truth ("A life for a life").

The elevator ride seemed faster than usual to Lisa as she finally appreciated the full magnitude of the situation. What had seemed merely dangerous before now seemed impossible to overcome and survive. She had saved Keefe, death had been cheated, and now death wanted what was owed to it. Lisa's mind, still in chaos-mode, attempted to recall which famous philosopher had come up with that concept, and she was more than a little disappointed to remember that it was in fact a franchise of horror movies. If she hadn't been on her way to her death right now, she would have laughed at her stupidity. At least her brain was now able to comprehend thoughts more sophisticated than the rain blowing sideways.

Jackson. Jackson was a thought she couldn't have, so if it took thinking about B movies or fortune cookie philosophies about how the rain blew, then that would be what she would think of to avoid picturing him as she saw him last. Alive or dead, she couldn't think of him. She had to finish this job for both of them and the only way to do so was to move on and not look back at that which was out of her control. Jackson had said something like that years ago on the plane. He would be so proud of her now for finally learning it.

* * *

When the elevator arrived at its destination, they had to exit for the stairs. Lisa hoped she didn't look tense or suspicious as she eyed the shadowy gray halls for one figure in particular.

As they entered the stairwell, the echoing clank of their shoes on the unattractive, industrial white staircase made chill bumps spread over Lisa's skin. Her body began to freeze and not respond to her instructions, and her hands shook.

"Move," a male voice snapped before shoving her upward. He must have realized how petrified she was becoming in her state of fear because he and another man essentially dragged her up the rest of the way. At the roof's service door, Lisa was expecting one precise gunshot to remove the doorknob and lock, but it ended up being nothing like that. The quiet muscle, the one who had remained the closest to the Piper, patiently began picking the door lock, careful not to scratch the metal and leave evidence behind. His gloved hands twisted and turned, angling the thin picks with years of skill and experience. Following a brief effort, the lock clicked and Lisa's heart pounded painfully in her chest.

Her feet were firmly planted and she refused to budge when they urged her forward. "You don't want to do this," she loudly asserted.

The Piper made a "tsk" and nodded. His men scooped her up by the arms and heaved her forward onto the roof in the pouring rain. The sky that had been gray was now ill-omened shades of black, dark blue, and even a sickening hue of green as seen in television specials about tornado-spawning weather. That was the thing about hurricanes: they were unpredictable. There might be nothing but harmless rain for a while or wind that would peel buildings apart as if they were made of Legos. There were also times when smaller sub-storms were birthed into existence and destroyed everything in their path. Lisa, already drenched by the rain, felt a sudden onset of vertigo as she attempted to walk across the roof. When she reached the end of the rooftop storage room that housed roof and outdoor supplies, she took a deep breath and avoided looking anywhere but straight ahead.

A hand reached out to shove her forward. She took off running as a second hand intercepted the first. From behind the corner of the storage room, Joe Reisert pulled the Piper's man to him using nothing but a secure wrist hold. He twisted the muscular man's arm around backward, forcing him to bend over to keep from breaking his arm. Joe jerked the arm upward, breaking it anyway, and then kicked the backs of his kneecaps out from under him. He landed on the ground, his knees crunching down grotesquely. Joe efficiently grabbed his neck and snapped it, stealing his life in one flash of indifference. He collected the gun from his victim's holster and fired off two shots, one in each of the heads of two more minions, before one grabbed him from behind.

Lisa struggled with her opponent for his gun as her father attempted to free himself from a chokehold. She was so distracted by her father's dilemma that her man caught her off guard and managed to pistol-whip her in the face. She finally let go of her hold on the gun, leaving him with sole possession of the weapon. She fell to the ground, dizzy and cold. He trained the gun on her and she dove for his legs. She brought him down with sheer force alone, but that was not enough to keep him down. Lisa pummeled her white-knuckled fist into his groin, and when he curled upward in anguish, she fired off a head-shot with the reclaimed gun. It was close-range, so blood spewed out and onto her like a horror movie, but the rain quickly showered it away. She stumbled to her feet and spun toward her father, gun stretched outward in preparation for taking sudden aim, but an unexpected assault from behind knocked the gun from her hand.

Lisa was jerked against a hard, equally wet body by an unfair grip on her soggy ponytail. She yelled out as her hair was used as a rope to control her. The Piper had her in his grasp and he instantly shoved a gun to her temple. Her father stopped fighting with one of the last two henchmen and held his hands up in surrender. The second man came up behind Joe and broke his arm in a way not unlike the technique Joe had used on another man earlier. The first man kicked him, and as Joe fell, his head impacted the small two foot tall concrete side wall of the roof and he lost consciousness.

The two men stood proudly in the center of the roof as they watched the Piper half-carry, half-drag Lisa in a headlock to the opposite side of the roof that overlooked the pool and the ocean. The wind blew rain into her eyes, and the small prickly drops limited her vision as she struggled against him. He was determined and driven, and she could feel his power as he effortlessly dominated her will by lugging her across the chess board.

Jackson had three major pieces, and two were out of the game. That left Lisa, but now she was about to be kicked over, knocked off the board, removed from the game. The Piper was about to win. Jackson's Queen was lost. Defeated. Conquered. Gone.

For so many years, Lisa ceased associating a value with her life. She had no purpose, no passion, and no penchant for anything other than merely existing day after day. When Jackson returned to her life, though, she found a purpose in gaining vengeance. She discovered her desire for being someone other than a damaged commodity. She acquired a fondness for being a semi-happy homemaker with Jackson, even if it was just an illusion. The only problem with all of this was that it only occurred to her now that she was able to see the tremendous waves constantly assaulting the shoreline. That old saying about youth being wasted on the young was more than applicable here, but it also seemed that there should be some sort of saying about angst only being a type of entitlement foolishly expected and welcomed by the young, that only the young could court pain like a tawdry lover.

"I truly like you, Ms. Reisert, but you have to understand that my organization must send a message. We can't let mistakes like you remain at large because you are a snowball that keeps rolling until one day you become a full-fledged avalanche." The Piper adjusted his grip on the gun and was about to pull the trigger when the sound of the roof door being slung open made him spin around, Lisa in tow.

"Jackson!" the Piper exclaimed in a combination of amusement and annoyance. He still held Lisa securely against his body, the gun never leaving her temple as they remained at the edge of the roof.

Barely visible to Lisa amid the dark overcast sky and the steady downpour of sharp, windblown raindrops was the crinkled, hunched over form of Jackson. He held his right arm tightly against his middle and his breathing was noticeably irregular, even from a distance. Jackson was a broken mess in the most literal sense. Despite the poor light and the rainfall, she could see that his clothes were completely stained in blood, blood that seemed to have stopped flowing as severely as it had been earlier based on the patterns of his now pink and red shirt. He was barely standing and it looked as if he would collapse at any given moment. He didn't stand a chance against the Piper or his last two men. Lisa wasn't even sure how he had managed to get out of the airport and to the Lux Atlantic. His mind over matter technique had gotten him this far, but she was smart enough to know that it wouldn't get him any farther.

The last two thugs stood about six feet from him on either side, each holding him at gunpoint and merely waiting for the go-ahead to end his existence. He was either oblivious to their presence or simply beyond caring.

"Let her go. Your business is with me," he called out, his breathing labored, but his voice forceful. Contrary to the feverish feeling that dominated his head, the rain and blood loss had cooled him, making his rapidly fading form now more susceptible to the elements. He shook uncontrollably as chill bumps erupted all over his body, and trembling muscle spasms added to his unsteadiness.

"You've always been an honorable businessman, but you've never been noble," the Piper noted casually, as if he had all the time in the world and not a care to hinder him. He tightened his arm around Lisa's neck. She coughed and wheezed until she slid herself a few millimeters into a slightly less restrictive position in his hold. She clutched his arm as if she could actually pull him away, as if she actually had power…as if she stood a chance in hell against him. "Why is she suddenly so important?"

"She's a charming conversationalist," Jackson automatically replied, the smooth retort sliding off of his tongue without effort. The bravado didn't last long, as he broke out into a small coughing spell immediately after speaking. Blood dripped from his mouth onto his lips and chin. He wiped at it before the Piper could notice—or so he hoped.

"She has _value_," the Piper diagnosed with unwavering confidence. "I know you too well, Jackson. She serves your purpose. The question is: _what's your purpose_?"

The harsh downpour had slacked off, so the scene was more visible to all parties for the first time. Even though her vision occasionally blacked out from where the Piper had cut off her windpipe, she managed to make out her father's crumpled form against the roof's sidewall where he remained unconscious, or perhaps dead. Jackson was a dead man walking and she could see his life drain from him with every passing second that he managed to remain in an upright position. Their options were slim despite all of their best laid plans and back-up plans and back-up back-up plans.

"I have no purpose without her," Jackson reluctantly admitted, forfeiting his poker face and the secret cards he held in his hand. Lisa's legs buckled as Jackson's words finally translated in her rapidly panicking mind. _I have no purpose without her_.

"That's sweet, Jackson, it really is. Now tell me the truth. Why do you have so much invested in this girl? What's your game?

Jackson chuckled soundlessly and his already pain-stricken body ached even more for his barely visible gesture. "That's it. Pathetic, huh?"

"Impossible."

"It's true." He forced himself to stand up as straight as possible, and he made his face remain neutral as searing bolts of excruciating pain darted through him at the speed of light. "I love her," he confessed, more raw and earnest than ever. Lisa's world stopped and she heard nothing but the pounding of her own heart in her ears.

It was in that instant that she knew for certain that she was about to die. Jackson had revealed his feelings, his love-granted it was under duress, but it still counted. If Jackson could be broken, it was truly the end of the world for one or both of them. The last words she would hear him speak would be his love for her.

"You're not capable of love," the Piper pressed onward. "I've read your file and I know your patterns. You aren't capable of it."

"Maybe I'm not," Jackson conceded, "but there are some things I _am_ capable of doing." Jackson lifted his arms and crossed them in a lightning-fast motion in front of his chest. A small knife flew from his right hand into the heart of the man to his left, while a twin blade from his left hand flew into the chest of the man to his right. Both dropped to the ground of the puddle-dominated roof. The attack had taken more out of Jackson than he had anticipated, and he too collapsed, helplessly slumping onto his side.

"Impressive, but I don't think you have one more of those tosses left in you."

Jackson closed his eyes, searching for a short reprieve. He needed to reprioritize because his body was demanding his full attention right now and that was not going to suffice. Lisa was his main concern and he had to override his body's impulses and instincts, and take charge of his own actions, his own fate, yet again. Jackson crawled to the man on his right, pulling himself in slow, deliberate motions that resembled a baby learning how to move on its own.

"And apparently you don't have one more of those knives on you either," the Piper mocked.

Jackson ignored the knife and instead seized the man's gun from his lifeless grasp. With one hand, he pushed himself up to his knees and eventually to his feet. He wobblingly stretched out his arm, directing the weapon at the Piper and, unavoidably, Lisa.

The Piper cackled. This was even more entertaining to him than the best of _The_ _Three Stooges_. Lisa acted upon the Piper's distraction and tried to free herself, or at least loosen his grip, but she failed on both counts and he constricted the arm coiled around her neck a little more as punishment.

"I meant it when I said I've read your file. Jackson, put the gun down. We all know you can't use it, and when I say _can't_, I mean you physically _cannot _use that gun. You're _impotent_."

Lisa stared into Jackson's eyes and she could see forever—his past, his present, and his desired future. Those startling ice blue orbs shined brightly with the clarity and freedom that came with an epiphany. His index finger traced the trigger pensively.

"Put the gun down, Jackson. You're too smart for this. We both know you won't risk hurting her."

"I won't risk hurting her," Jackson agreed with him.

The Piper snickered. "C'mon Jackson! You and I both know you couldn't hit a wall an arm's length in front of you."

"There's only one problem with that theory," Jackson informed the Piper with a small smile as he straightened himself to stand tall.

"Oh? And what's that?"

"_He's not aiming at a wall_," Lisa answered threateningly for Jackson as she braced herself not to move even in the slightest, no matter what.

Jackson pulled the trigger and the shot echoed like a sonic boom.

Lisa saw the world lose speed so that everything happened in slow motion.

She watched patiently as the bullet traveled in the air, bursting through hundreds of raindrops. The loud bang of the gun less than a millisecond earlier was a forgotten memory as the unusual high-pitched whistle of the bullet charging against the wind, among the rain, amid the storm, haunted her mind like a ghostly howl on a dark and lonely night.

As the bullet drew near, she remained motionless, her trust in Jackson paralyzing her for her own well-being. She could sense the heat emanating from the metal and the steam that radiated from it due to the cool, moist atmosphere. She could feel the hot air rush against her face as the bullet parted the soggy air and drilled itself into the center of the Piper's forehead merely centimeters from her own. Blood pellets joined the water, creating an entirely new shower to rain down on Lisa.

The Piper's chokehold on Lisa weakened and she smiled briefly before she felt him falling back off the edge of the roof, his arm still linked around her neck and dragging her with him. She impulsively screamed as she tumbled backwards over the edge.

* * *

The sound of gunfire revived Joe Reisert from his unconscious slumber. He lunged upright just in time to see Lisa falling over the edge of the Lux Atlantic's roof.

* * *

All of his injuries, all of his pain, and all of his disadvantages were long-forgotten urban legends to Jackson as he threw down the gun while running and took a leap through the air. He landed balanced across the gut on the short wall, and Lisa's hand was by some miracle in his own. The Piper was a blur flailing toward the earth in the background. Jackson couldn't control or censor the screams and groans that flew out of his mouth, but his mind was focused on not letting go of Lisa's hand. He gripped the inside of the wall the best he could with his legs, but he was sliding too far out of balance on the wall and Lisa's weight was working against both of them. He could feel himself slipping.

"Climb," he grunted. He gasped in vain for air so he could speak up for her to hear. "_Climb!_" he barked at her, his voice not at all that of the man she knew. He was part wounded animal, part stubborn bastard, and the stubborn bastard wanted her to climb up his battered and torn body to safety. Lisa was clinging to her human lifeline with both hands, but her grip was slipping in the rain.

* * *

A shadow landed firmly on top of Jackson's body and an arm reached down to grab Lisa by the wrist.

"_Climb!_" her father commanded her as he held down Jackson's body with his own and used the strength he had in his one good arm to help Lisa make her way up to the top. When Lisa was close enough, Joe let go of her wrist and wrapped his unbroken arm around her, assisting her to her own feet atop the roof.

Jackson stood up unsteadily. As Lisa hugged her father gratefully, Jackson took a few steps away from them and buckled. She shoved herself out of her father's supportive embrace and spun around when a large thud and splatter reminded her of Jackson's mere mortality.

"Oh my God." Lisa dropped to Jackson's side. She immediately checked for a pulse and confirmed that he was still breathing. Her fingers traveled over his body, quickly assessing the damage he had accumulated. "Oh God," she breathed on the verge of hyperventilating. "Dad," she called out, finally looking up to her father expectantly, as if he would snap his fingers and everything would be okay. "Daddy! Daddy!" she pleaded, losing herself in her hysterics. She was a child again and her world was caving in on her. She wanted her way and it wasn't happening. Only one person could fix the problem and change the world. Only one man could return his little girl to the center of the universe, aligning all of her hopes and dreams in a cosmic array of destiny. "Help him! We have to do something!"

With only one glance, Joe knew Jackson was on borrowed time and his death on this day was inevitable. Even Jackson had known it without self-delusion. Still, Lisa clung to hope that there was still a chance. Joe had seen many grim things in his days with the Company and he knew this was unavoidable. Joe bent over and put his arm around Lisa's shoulder. "Lisa, honey, we need to go," he softly urged. Her toy was broken. He couldn't replace it, but he could help her move past it. Sometimes Daddy wasn't as powerful as a little girl believed him to be.

"No!" she wailed, leaning forward and holding on to Jackson's motionless form. Blood had started to free flow again from some of his wounds. Logic told Lisa that he would be dead from blood loss soon, but her heart knew that she couldn't leave him there to die without even trying to save him.

"The storm is getting worse. We need to get out while we still stand a chance," he attempted to reason with her, keeping his voice low and calm, hoping to soothe her into submission.

"No!" She clutched Jackson even tighter. "I can't leave him here. I can't leave him." She wept a few seconds, her chest heaving with choking sobs, before she sat up and looked her father dead in the eye. Her own eyes were wide and bloodshot, and one had a nasty bruise forming below it. "You have to help me. We have to get him out of here," she beseeched, gasping frantically for air between words and tears.

"Leese, honey,"

"No! Daddy, please, help me! Daddy!"

Joe huffed in surrender and stood, pulling his daughter up and shoving her out of his way. He knelt down and heaved Jackson onto his shoulder in a one-armed attempt at a fireman's carry as he grunted and struggled under the disproportioned weight. He was well aware of how much more damage he was inflicting, but at this point, it was all inconsequential. Jackson was as good as dead regardless. Lisa stood blankly next to him as he started for the exit. Finally her mind resumed working again and she caught up with him, taking the lead to help guide him back into the building and down several flights of stairs before they could use the elevator.

Downstairs, Lisa had the option of picking between the Piper's cars and her own Mustang that Jackson had driven to the hotel. The Mustang was faster and its tires were designed for use in unsavory weather conditions. She ran to the Mustang, opened the passenger side door for her father, and pulled the front seat all the way up to the dash panel to give him enough room to deposit Jackson and himself in the backseat of the two-door vehicle. She was apparently in shock because all she could think about was reminding Jackson when they returned to the house that they needed to go car shopping for a four-door sedan rather than a sporty two-door. Lisa snapped out of her trance and took her place in the blood-drenched driver's seat.

She floored the gas pedal, spinning the tires on the waterlogged surface before taking off through the desolate streets of Miami.

* * *

Debris flew dangerously through the city. A traffic light pole started falling down just as the Mustang charged by at 80 miles per hour. Lisa had to keep the wheel turned as hard right as she could to maintain a semi-straight path against the wind, but the car still occasionally surrendered to the wind's pressure by fishtailing just enough to frustrate Lisa's already exhausted nerves. Her eyes were wide and alert, but tears that wouldn't fall from their comfortable home along the line of her red-rimmed eyelids made it difficult to see. She was cold from being soaking wet, but she was hot from being stressed and terrified. Occasionally something would unexpectedly fall in the car's path, causing her to rapidly react and ultimately jostle her father and Jackson around more than they should have been. Her father would grumble loudly or curse when he lost his balance and crashed into the side panel of the car or the headrest of the front passenger seat, but no sound came from Jackson.

"Where do we go?" Lisa finally asked when she was several blocks away from the hotel.

Her father waited a moment before answering. Lisa knew how these things worked, or at least she knew when she was in her right mind. She knew that, as always, the National Guard was stationed at a secure location not far from the immediate coastline and outside of the high-risk danger zone.

He pulled out his cell phone and pressed a button, and he hoped against all hope that the cell towers had not been taken out by the storm just yet. "It's me," he said dejectedly, praying that his voice could be heard over the frying static of the connection. "We're heading out now. Where are you?"

"_What?_" Lisa realized for the first time that her father was on the phone. She looked into the rearview mirror and saw him holding the phone to his ear as if this were just another day, just another phone call. He was in the backseat of the car with her dying lover as he betrayed them both. She struggled to form words as he gave their exact location to his contact and ordered an extraction as per their agreement.

"You promised us—"

"—That I would take care of _you_ and _I am_! Shut up and drive! You can hate me later!" Joe screamed back at his daughter. He never yelled at Lisa—never, ever. She had not only been a perfect daughter all her life, but she had been the light of his life. Suddenly, that changed. He was betraying her, but only because he was saving her. That had been Jackson's excuse too. Both of the men she loved were betraying her by lying to her face and plotting behind her back. If that was a sign of love, then she was obviously doing something wrong.

Lisa's tears started freefalling as she swerved the car through fallen debris from peeling buildings, collapsed utility poles, and dropped trees. She slammed on brakes abruptly, lunging herself forward into the steering wheel and her father against the back of the passenger's seat. "Dead end," she muttered, looking around for an alternative route, but the crumbled buildings that had been victimized earlier by excessive wind gusts or even an accompanying tornado blocked the road forward. "I can double back," she reasoned as she shifted the car into reverse and floored the gas pedal.

When he realized that things seemed too quiet, Joe looked down at Jackson. The faint wheeze he had been monitoring had ceased. "Leese, stop the car," Joe ordered.

"We have to—"

"He's not breathing, Lisa. _Stop the car!_"

Lisa obediently pressed down on the brakes, jarring them yet again. As soon as the car had stopped, Joe crawled out of the back and started tugging on Jackson's leg to get him out. Lisa assisted him. When they got him on the ground, Joe ripped off Jackson's shirt the rest of the way while Lisa tugged the kevlar vest loose. Joe tilted Jackson's head back and slightly elevated his neck and upper torso with his one good arm as Lisa discarded the heavy protective gear. She began CPR on his red-colored bare chest. Joe stood and backed away, watching his daughter desperately attempt to save the man who had tormented her in person and in her mind for so many years.

Jackson was drowning in his own blood. CPR couldn't fix that, but Joe wasn't going to stand in her way.

A roaring sound in the distance caught Joe's attention. He took a few steps in its direction. "No," he spoke to himself. He pulled his phone out again and attempted to call out, but cell service was no longer functional. "Dammit." He ran to the driver's side of the Mustang and held down the horn, hoping that they would somehow hear it. Lisa glanced up to see what he was doing, but she quickly ignored him and returned her full attention to Jackson.

"No!" she cried, unable to administer any more chest compressions. "You can't leave me!" she shrieked, hammering her fist against his chest. "You hear me? You can't leave me!" She continued to pound her fist down upon his chest. "_Jackson!_" She howled his name, but she couldn't even hear her own voice.

She didn't notice that there was a military helicopter hovering over her.

* * *

**Late November, 2012**

The air had a distinctive chill about it, but the light breeze and seasonal smells of the changing flora made it feel comfortable and safe. Lisa may have been wearing blue jeans, a thin maroon v-neck sweater, and a blue jean jacket over top of it, but the mood of the day was far from casual. As she walked through the cemetery, she saw families tending to the graves of those they had lost by replacing old flowers with new ones, or adding some sort of trinkets to help their loved ones "celebrate" Thanksgiving and the forthcoming Christmas holiday. The sun was bright and the birds were still chirping, as of yet unbothered by the impending winter cold.

When she arrived at her destination, she sighed, uncertain of how to begin. If Jackson had been standing next to her, he would have mocked her for being so silly over a marble slab on top of a buried corpse. For Lisa, this was about more than visiting a site that housed mere dirt and bones.

"Hi," she began awkwardly. She felt a lump rise in her throat and her vision became blurry with tears that she quickly blinked away. "I'm not good at this and I know you never expected to see me here, being so sentimental over something like this. If you were here right now, I'm sure you'd tell me to move on and get out of the cemetery!" She laughed nervously and sniffed. "But, I had to come. And we both know why."

Lisa exhaled and looked around. Some kids were running and playing with bubbles as their parents talked quietly over a grave. The breeze blew through her long, loose hair. Lisa gazed down again. "These are for you," she said, kneeling and placing a bouquet of white roses on the ground in front of the marble grave marker. "Now that I'm here, I really don't know what to say to you. The only thing I know to say for sure is…" she hesitated for a moment as she struggled for the words. "He grew up to be a good man. It took some time for both of us to find that part of him, but it was there all along. And I want you to know that…" She bit down on her lower lip.

She exhaled. "I want you to know that he's in a better place now. I think he finally found peace." Lisa reached out and traced her fingers along the engraving on the tombstone that read "Margaret Dillon Ritter."

* * *

**TBC…**

* * *

**Author's Note 1: ** I apologize for the late update. I'm having a medical crisis in my family right now. I'll try to get back to my once a week schedule if possible; otherwise, I will make sure I do not go beyond every two weeks.

**Author's Note 2: **Joe with his bag of chips was inspired by Liluri. Thank you for the great image.


End file.
